Banditos
by Hack.Drawer
Summary: A train robbery unwittingly unleashes the powers of a demon; the Wild West is taken over by the powers of the undead. AU, Hs/R, gore, violence and terrible OOC.
1. The Mighty Train Robbery

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**A/N: Hmm, I thought I'd post this story for Halloween. Somewhat edited. I'd written it in, what, 2006? (still posted at another site, and the date sounds about right.) Rereading it makes me wish I still had that drive to write again. (sad face). Anyway, hopefully older readers will recognize this, and newer readers, um…yah. :D**

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!  
><strong>_Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, __**Darkwatch**__. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark._

**Prologue:  
>The Mighty Train Robbery<strong>

All of them were wearing bandannas over their mouth and noses, and their hats were pulled low. The only thing visible were their eyes–their guns were pointed at the frightened and wide-eyed passengers, all of them fearful of their standing.

They were after the safe that the train was transferring, along with the money that was supposedly guarded under 'heavy' security. 'Security' consisted of five men that were eager to cooperate with them upon seeing their numbers and guns.

Everything was running so smoothly–there were three men with the engine operator, there were four of them covering the passenger train, and there were four of them managing the money factor. The safe was being worked on, one of the guards threatened into telling them the combination. It was only fortunate for the robbers that this particular man knew the combination. Otherwise, no amount of TNT or picking at the sturdy piece of work would have opened it.

The eleven passengers were a group of scared men and women that were obeying all instructions. Ten pairs of eyes were watching those menacing guns–ranging from shotgun to revolvers–and ten people had already been stripped of their valuables and money. As the train clacked loudly on its tracks, wood swaying and the occasional call of the engine whistle sliced through the air, everything was conducted in near silence. The windows were dusty, but the clear views of the open desert and the blue skies offered no solace to those that were being stripped of what valuables they had.

One of the passengers was under question, heavy scrutiny. The eleventh passenger that sat in the back, hunched in his seat, making no panicking or acknowledging action of the robbery taking place.

"You're one ugly motherfucker," one robber commented, his voice thick with disgust and an accent that no one had ever heard of. His skin was black, through, and he had a thick braid dangling from underneath his stained hat. He was no more than fifteen–his youth was apparent with both his voice and his visible features. His skinny arms welded the shotgun easily, though, handling it with every bit of confidence that his older colleagues had with their weapons.

There were three boys with the group of robbers. As soon as the engine was held, two other men from that stage moved from that open car to this one, assisting them. Their weight settled on the wood had them shifting, juggling the three boys around so that each one was covered.

Overly excited, Francis Stone was one of these boys–he was downright eager to pull off his first train robbery, working with a couple of friends and hoping for a lengthy career as an outlaw. His peach colored skin was flushed with both excitement and nervousness as he eyed each passenger, his finger steady on the trigger–his gun wasn't loaded, though. One of the older, more experienced men had kept the three boys from carrying loaded weapons–so none of them would make a mistake they would regret the rest of their lives.

Their mission wasn't to take lives–it was to steal money.

But the passengers didn't know that.

The other two boys–one, a son of a freed slave, and the other, a misfit from New York–were on the same track, as well. The first was named Blayne–no last name–and the other was Aron. Aron was looking for reputation, while Blayne just wanted to be accepted by those he identified with. The group of robbers were a strange mixture of whites, Spaniards, blacks and a couple of Chinese. It certainly looked out of place to those that had never seen such Nationalities collected together in such a way.

The man in question had his shoulders hunched, and he was questionable in terms of looks. His color was sallow, yellow–it looked as if his skin was dripping right off his bones. His hat was pulled low, and his long, black hair was loose around his shoulders. He hadn't drawn any sort of attention until the robbers caught sight of him. Dressed in a nice shirt, an expensive jacket, and a faded blue bandanna that was pulled just under his chin, he had escaped close scrutiny from those that passed by. His looks were faintly savage–that long dark hair of his instantly told others of his nationality. But they were misguided–he wasn't a savage at all.

The young men had taken from him a book, a bag full of odd looking materials, and a couple of jewelry pieces from his fingers and neck. Currently, the bag was being investigated, and the men searching through it were visibly concerned.

A glass jar filled with a yellowish liquid was produced–in it were organs of undetermined nature. A hollow book was produced–in it was a pair of human hands; the skin mummified to a dark gray, fingers curled slightly; thin rope wrapped around both wrists. There was a smaller book, the cover and backing feeling odd within the robber's hands–the stitches were deliberately large, and it seemed to stretch and give with odd consistency as they handled it. Inside, the pages were full of scribbles in a language no one heard of, or could decipher. Diagrams were followed with inked illustrations of creatures unknown to man–but the pictures of human devastation was apparent. The book was closed hastily as a severe chill swept through the car.

There was a tightly wrapped roll of blanket of something heavy, but it was set aside as soon as the book was discovered.

"That's _human_ skin!" one of the others exclaimed, in a shocked tone.

The book was immediately dropped, disgust ranging on all their faces. The bag was abandoned.

Immediately, Blayne raised his shotgun, pointing it at the man that didn't look at any of them. "What's your story, man?" he demanded. "What's with all this voodoo bullshit? You some kinda _witch_?"

The man didn't move–merely shifted in his seat, wood creaking under foot.

"That there is infant skin," he finally said, and his voice produced a sort of panic quite different from that of which was apparent to the robbers. It was a sway between bass and a watery sort of differential–as he were speaking from underneath water. When his lips parted, yellow, cracked teeth were visible–his lips cracked with obvious injury as he grinned. "Quite fragile, I must say–but prettily smooth and nice to enjoy when I am memorizing my tables..."

The robbers, and the passengers were visibly taken back. The men holding the weapons didn't care when the passengers rose from their seats to take their space from the odd man.

"Stripped from the boy of one of my many wives, back there in India," the man continued, shifting in his seat. "He won't be needing it–not where he is, now. Have you ever seen a child without human skin? Quite fascinating."

No one was sure what to say–it was as if this man were going to fall apart, literally, with every movement he made. He lifted his head, and everyone pulled back–he was missing his nose, and his eyes gleamed a violent red. The pupils were dilated completely over, so that only blackness coated the entire globe–but the reddish glow was real. His eye sockets sagged so that it seemed as if something from within his skull was sucking them back–his eyebrows were nonexistent. A living skeleton with skin–he had everyone trembling and backing away from him.

"Holy shit, man, that is the most fucked up thing I've seen my entire life!" Francis exclaimed. His green eyes were wide, and with the way he breathed anxiously through his mouth caused his bandanna to push and pull against his lips. His gun started shaking in his gloved hands as a couple of the passengers pushed past him.

"_What_ are you?" another robber demanded, his furrowed brow giving away his agitation.

The man gave a short chuckle, lowering his head slightly to adjust his bandanna. In doing so, he revealed the fact that he didn't have a throat–that all that held his head atop was the stem of his spine, and a few sagging muscles and tendons. The entire passenger car went dumb silent as many pairs of eyes fixed onto this human flaw–disbelief making everyone united in their standing. Rising from his seat, the man chuckled again, a hissing sort of sound with audible lettering.

"Kee kekekekekeke..."

"Shit, man...stay back. Stay back, y'hear? You're freakin' us out!" Blayne exclaimed, raising his shotgun, preparing to fire. "I'mina hit you! I'll _kill_ you!"

The man shuffled easily to the bag that had been unloaded–carefully replacing all his items. He stared up at the terrified robbers, most of whom were barely in their teens–young boys. His eyes stopped that eery glow, and he heaved a tired sigh, which filtered out the open of his throat rather than his mouth or missing nose.

"Young'uns, these days," he muttered impatiently, almost to himself. With deliberate movements, he finished packing everything, save for the wrapped bundle of mysterious content. He set that at his side. "So impulsive...quick to judge, or to make a mistake with their hasty decisions. You need to stand back and thing, boys. Don't rush into a scene, thinking that big balls will get ya where you need to be. Patience–have patience. Think of your every move, rather than wasting it all on adrenaline."

"I'm warning you..."

"What are you going to do, boy? Shoot me? Kill me? I'm already dead!" the man exclaimed, gesturing at himself. "Look at me! I've been dead for nearly two hundred years, son. I doubt that you can hurt me, now."

He could just hear their brains working, trying to grasp this fact–trying hard to understand what he was saying. Trying to process it. He chuckled, lowering his head again. He rose, dusting off his pants, picking up the wrapped bundle.

"You chose the wrong train to rob, my friends," he said, shaking his head. Touching his hat briefly as he carefully undid the ties made out of deer sinew. "I was heading into Mexico–to escape this burgeoning tyranny of corruption and laws that were made impulsively by those that don't want to follow them. But...you've changed my mind. And _his_, as well..."

The blanket was carefully peeled away from his contents, revealing a small body, human, curled in fetal position–its skin gray and dry, mummified. Before many widening, disbelieving eyes, the baby blinked globe-less eyes, and started to fidget, mouth open with a silent mewl.

"Take a long look at him, boys," the man whispered, inserting the tip of his finger into the toothless mouth, the baby suckling at it weakly. "This is the first, and the last, you'll ever see of the dead that'll rule this continent. Once he feeds on your souls, you'll belong to him...for eternity."

The sudden stench of rotting corpses, combined with the sudden, terrified shrieks of the men coming from the cars behind and before them struck the robbers, then. Blayne turned, seeing that the passengers that had sought safety were rapidly turning into the undead–skin weathered and began to shrink, revealing bones, an eerie green to their bodies that lit the car with as much light as it was daylight. Their clothes began to rot, revealing long made moth holes and savagely ripped areas that looked as if animals had gotten to them.

They were corpses, and they were utterly terrifying. The more experienced robbers turned their guns on them as they attacked, but the boys were too frightened to do much of anything.

The man began to laugh, a loud cackling that filled the car as shrieks and screams tore through the air. One of the boys wet his jeans, the other two too terrified to even notice.

"This train belongs to the undead, you stupid fools! We were going peacefully–but you decided to anger us with your pathetic thievery! I, myself, found myself troubled by the lengths of your crime–no matter. You'll pay for it. You'll add excellently to my–_excuse_ _me_," he apologized to the small babe he had tenderly in his arm, "to _his_ army of darkness. Enjoy it–at least you'll live forever."

"Go! Go go go go go!" Blayne cried, shoving at the two that were staring in frightened shock at the undead that were attacking their friends.

The moving corpses demonstrated a frightening sort of strength and power that allowed them to literally tear arms and legs from torsos–as blood splattered through the air, the sound of ripping muscle, bones and skin agonizingly distinct within the small car, the baby mewled quietly with a sort of innocence common of newborns.

The screams of the dying were just as loud as those that were already dead.

The moment the boys were pushed, they began moving–shoving past the man holding the baby, heading toward the next car–the man followed their progress as gun blasts tore through the air, following the screams of the living that died by the undead's hands.

"You won't get far!" the man's shout followed after the terrified boys, as they hurriedly jumped from one car to the other, seeing that this one was filled with gore–those men that were cracking the safe had been torn from limb to limb.

Each one stopped, each's eyes wide with horror as they stared at the display–their more experienced friends lying in shambles throughout the car, their blood and gore staining the floor, walls and windows. Those five guards rose from their respective positions, spying them with their sunken eyes and their ashy skin.

Screaming, the trio turned to head back, only to see the passengers from the other car herding toward them. Tripping on the slippery intestines of a nearby robber, one of the boys fumbled for the side door that was locked from the inside–successfully jerking the lock to the side, and thrusting the door open. It settled with the wind the train created as it sped along the tracks, throwing it open with a loud bang against the outer wall. As the scenery flew by, the terrible screams and shrieks of the undead followed the boys, piercing their thoughts.

Without much thought, each one leapt from the train in hasty fright. Each landing was tough, muscles and bones jolting, limbs twisting awkwardly–grunts and exhaled breaths of anguish left each boy's mouth as they rolled, tumbled and finally came to painful stops within the brush of the desert. As the train continued at its current speed along its tracks, it left behind a sordid stench of coal smoke and rotting corpses. The clanging metal of wheels upon rails began to fade as it continued down the plain stretch of desert, heading further into Spanish territory.

The trio took their time in recovery–hearts were still beating furiously, their heads were a confused jumble of terrified thoughts and pictures of what they'd just endured.

In the resulting tumble, hats were lost and clothes were dirty from the noon baked dirt of the West–limbs were incredibly shaky, and muscles were sore.

Holding tightly onto a shoulder that had been dislocated with the fall, Blayne spoke with a pain filled grimace. "That there was the most freakiest thing I ever did see. My _entire_ life."

"Am I trippin' on peyote, again? Cuz...I really don't think I saw...what I thought I saw." Francis' voice was shaky as he said this, staring numbly at his worn and scuffed boots.

"You _did_ see what you saw," Aron muttered, glaring down at the wet spot on his jeans. He covered it with more dirt, hoping that the others wouldn't know he'd pissed his pants.

All three of them stared at the still visible train as it continued to lumber its way down the tracks–heading into the mountains that were still snow capped.

Blayne rose from the dirt, swallowing tightly. "What do you think he meant? By...by all that? Do ya'll think he's...he's gonna do that to other people?"

"Dunno. Why should we care, anyway?" Aron asked as he rose as well, dusting himself off. His face was flushed with mortification as he realized that dumping dirt onto his wet stained jeans made them worse. "Ain't like we kin do anything about it. We're just three of us."

"Yeah...who knows? Maybe it's just passing through the territory?" Francis reasoned as he rose, legs shaking dangerously. "Maybe it ain't gonna stick around, cuz there ain't nothin' much out here."

Blayne looked troubled for a few moments, then shook his head. "Yah...you're right. Let's start walkin', boys. We'll go back to the hideout. Tell the others. And then...?"

"What we gonna do, if'n they come back, lookin' for _us_?" Aron asked, worry evident in his tone. He started to follow behind the other boys as they began to long trek back to the town they'd left behind.

"They won't. Cuz, like you said earlier–we're only three of us. We ain't no bother to anybody. I mean...what can we do? Seriously?"

"They made us aim with no ammo," Francis recalled, a little sullen. "'Fraid that we'd fire and kill somebody cuz they thought we were...too overeager."  
>"That sucks," Blayne muttered. "We were in control. Though...it would've helped if we had ammo. Maybe we could've blown them to bits. An', like...stopped them."<p>

"Yeah...shoulda, woulda, coulda, I guess. Let's just go home. Ain't like we can do anything, like Blayne said," Francis said on a sigh.

Traumatized, the boys headed back toward home–neither of them could ever imagine how wrong they were.

The town had already been taken over.


	2. Richie

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**_  
><em>

**Chapter One:  
>Richie<strong>

Teresa winced, the other girls commenting in sympathy as they listened to the violent slashes the horse whip made as it connected with the new kid's back. The accompanying screams of pain were just as violent, and though she felt little sympathy, she felt that he earned what he'd gotten. She had warned him, of course, that the penalty for trying to run away was something of horrendous design, but the boy hadn't listened to her. Overlooking the weak railing of the second floor, glancing down at the courtyard that separated the saloon from Alva's main building of business, she watched as Junior shouted expletives as Trapper continued with the lashing. She'd heard and counted four lashes so far; she'd figured that they wouldn't hold back on him because he was male.

It was nearly dawn, and while men cheered within the saloon over the punishment, rowdy laughter and comments escaping the wooden walls, everyone was either passing out for the night or moving onto a quieter location. It all didn't matter; the girls' night was over, and the ones that weren't tied with customers at the moment were watching the new kid receive his punishment for trying to run away.

Mirage, the pretty little beauty that had been forcefully separated from her brother a couple of years back, gave a sad sigh. "Such a pity...you told 'im, Teresa. Can't go feeling sorry for that city slicker."

"You say he's working _with_ us, girl?" one of the other women, Patty, asked the Spanish whore skeptically. "A _boy_? They do that sort of thing in nem big cities, now?"

"Apparently so," Teresa said curtly, looking down as the sixth lash was administered. The screams were less violent, now. Any moment, she expected him to pass out from the pain. Her own back seemed to ripple with the remembrance of the only five lashes she'd received the first year she'd come to work for Alva and son. She was quite sure the others' were feeling the same way. "Now they introducing that sort of bullshit out here."

"Ain't nothin' _sacred_," Mirage whistled lowly, crouching against the railing. Her dress drooped at the shoulders, baring her thin arms and back in such a provocative manner, but she wasn't trying to entice; her dress was just ill-fitting. "Look at 'im. Pale like them clouds in the sky. How you think he gets that color, huh?"

"_Gross_," Miranda commented disdainfully. The older woman was smoking a pipe, blowing smoke rings up at the night sky. Teresa glanced back at her, noting that the woman depended on alcohol just to get through the night. It showed on her face, and she couldn't help but wonder when Junior was going to get rid of her. Less competition for the others. "I ain't ever seen that shade of white since my granddaddy died, an' I hadda clean him. Needs to lay that wimpy body out for some color. No man's gonna want somethin' like that, when he gots woman of color 'round. Bullshit."

"Men like other _men_ for such things?" Patty asked in astonished shock, looking at the others.

Teresa gave an absent shrug as she stared down at the scene, noting that the screams had stopped. That Trapper was lashing an unresponsive body, now. They watched as Junior waved off the last lash, grabbing a handful of golden blond hair, peering into a slack face. She straightened away from the railing as men cheered loudly from the bar, lifting their mugs at the younger Alva for a job well done.

"Git to yer rooms, ladies. He's done."

**010101010110**

His parents couldn't possibly have had a hand in this horrible situation. He was very sure of it. He was very sure that those men had picked up on the wrong man, because this entire reality was a terrible nightmare. Sitting at the edge of his lumpy bed, his back horrendously sore and his mind numb, Richie Foley stared down at the worn floorboards of his room, almost lifeless in appearance. It was nearly noon, and he had yet to sleep despite the exhaustion he felt. His stomach was clenching in on itself, wanting food, but it had been denied after last night's ordeal with his first customer.

His left cheek throbbed where the drunken man had struck him, and Junior had been more than furious when he heard the complaint. The night had passed without another incident, but when he produced no money in the hour that it was expected before the girls retired to bed, Junior had lashed out at him once more. He'd never been struck in his life; his parents had never gone through such lengths to discipline him, as he'd always been a good kid. To be subjected to the merciless horse whip twice since he'd arrived had been just as much abject torture as the very acts he was supposed to perform.

He felt the strong yearning and need to be back at home in New York, safe and comforted with the poor life he'd lived there. No matter that they'd lived in the outer stretches were sanitation was less cleanly than it was here; no matter that they'd struggled daily for food and payment on a small shingle roof house; no matter if he was shipped from one parent to the other in an effort to maintain a sort of thriving lifestyle. His parents had always wanted him to do better, to live better than them, and they'd struggled to have him educated.

The day his mother came back to him, excited at the prospect of sending him West to teach the uneducated, had been the day he'd promise to make them proud. He was going to make a life from what he was being given; perhaps he'd find a good wife that was in the same social standing, where he'd come back full of experience and certainly a little richer and able to give his parents what he'd earned.

His parents had loved him, devoted on him; they'd struggled for him. They couldn't have possibly agreed to Alva's offer into making him into a whore. _They just couldn't_. He couldn't ever imagine his mother readily agreeing to such a thing. Not his quiet, gentle mother, and proud, hard working father.

He heard the shrill whistle of the train, and slowly rose from his bed, to stand at the dusty window. He had taken his glasses off when Junior had told him bitterly that if he ever wanted to see anything again, he should hide the things. He wouldn't be needing them, anyway; he didn't have to look closely at a customer because he had no choice in such judgements, anyway. The precious pair of glasses were tucked safely underneath his bed, underneath a loose floor board. He attempted to wipe the window clean, but the dust outside gave him only a blurry look out at the busy correl and a few other buildings that he assumed were boarding areas for the cowboys passing through. His hand was shaking as he dropped it to his side, staring forlornly at what he could.

His thoughts kept their bewildered and numb sort of thinking over the possibility of his parents selling him. The very idea was just much to imaginative! Too ghastly!

His back felt sore and stung terribly, and he struggled to ignore what had been done. He wished that Teresa would come by to apply that salve, but she hadn't even spoke to him since the night before. He was still dressed in the clothing that he'd been given, and he looked down at it with trepidation. Hurriedly, he ripped off the shirt he'd pulled on after his last lashing, and tossed it to the floor. The pants he struggled out of, the material tight and clingy as he hopped from one foot to the other.

When he was at last free from the binding material, he stood in the nude for a few moments, then quickly crouched to the floor, to pull out his suitcase from underneath the bed.

A moment of horror told him that something wasn't right as it felt much too light, and he opened it with a dismayed gasp, to see that all his new clothing was missing nearly half of its accompanying articles. Shirts, trousers, socks–all the things that his mother had spent nearly all her savings on to give him something to wear out in a brand new place, and most of it was missing.

Despair hit him with just as much impact as a physical hit, and he burst into tears, feeling momentarily shamed at doing so. But he pulled out the remaining shirt and a set of pants, pulling them on with shaking limbs. The moment he did so, he quickly turned and located his book bag, and saw with some mixture of relief that all of his books and things he'd planned to use with teaching were still there.

Whomever had gone through his clothing had probably decided that they couldn't do anything with the valuable articles of education. A quick glance around told him that his coat was missing, as well. His hat he hadn't seen since meeting Alva and his son the first day he'd arrived.

He clutched a book of sonnets with grief, bowing his head as he finished crying. Sniffling loudly, he wiped his nose and face with the sleeve of his shirt and froze when he realized he heard the ominous sounds of men walking up the pathway toward his room. Quickly, he shoved the book back into the bag and shoved that underneath the bed. He sat gingerly on his bed and watched with fear widened eyes as the door opened, Junior, Specs, Trapper and Casey walking in.

"Ain't you supposed to be resting for tonight?" the younger Alva asked on a drunken sneer, the others fanning out with similar expressions.

His throat was tight with terror, but Richie managed to choke out, "I couldn't sleep."

"We been thinking, boy, that perhaps last night, you shooed away your first customer cuz you had no idea what you were doing!" Casey said, his voice light with amusement. "So, we came on up here to see if that were true."

The image of that man's horrid penis came to mind, and his stomach churned violently. He entwined his fingers, clutching them fiercely as he looked from one to another with uncertain expectation. He knew something horrible was going to happen, but he didn't know what. He had the traitorous thought take form in that they were just going to beat him again, for the fun of it. Every muscle was locked tight, stiff, and unyielding as he focused on Junior, looking for some clue in what was expected of them.

"You ain't got no experience at all?" Trapper asked, in a sort of insolent tone. "None? Not even with serving yourself?"

"That's kinda funny, man," Specs laughed. "All men know what to do with _themselves_!"

"Well, let's get this over with," Junior decided. "I'm starting to sober up an' realizin' what I agreed to."

Still unable to fathom what their intentions were, Richie felt himself draw back, eyeing that man with undisguised horror as he began moving first.

But before the man could even touch him, a shout registered from the yard below, and all four men hurried out. The door slammed shut behind Casey, and the lock slipped into place as muffled shouting commenced. Knowing that he'd escaped something terrible, Richie exhaled harshly, struggling to maintain his composure. That incident certainly didn't help him sleep, as he laid awake throughout the rest of the day, waiting for them to come back.

**010101010110**

Patty had her tongue caught between her lips as she carefully applied a thin line of kohl around Richie's eyes, the teen blinking repeatedly at the unfamiliar application. "Hold still, dammit. You're making me smudge it!"

"I'm sorry...it tickles," he said quietly, still blinking when she finally pulled her brush back.

Patty observed her work, then tilted her head. "You have weird eyes, man," she finally commented. "They're almost gold. But...then they're brown. What color your parents have?"

"My mother had green eyes. And my father had blue. But my grandmother on my mother's side had amber eyes, as well."

"Well, this intensifies that color. It's quite attractive, actually. Ooh, I hate you boys. Why is it boys have longer lashes than us girls? It's so irritating. Here...just a little bit of...this on your lip...now rub it in."

As Richie did as she instructed, very uncomfortable with that he was allowing this woman to apply makeup to his face. Patty set aside her lip color, then sighed. "That'll have to do. Sometimes men like that their whores have color on their faces. Kinda distracts from the fact that we all _ugly_ underneath."

Richie didn't say anything, just directed his tired stare to the floor as the older woman straightened, her dress rustling. He had the thought that she was making fun of him, playing with him–but at the same time, he doubted that. She wore a very horrid combination of orange and brown, her bosoms pushed up and on display, sprinkled with a sort of glittery dust. She would have been a friendly, popular woman if she wasn't so occupied with the competition among the other girls. Richie was sure she was being this friendly only because he wasn't a threat to her... _yet_.

He felt himself give a derisive shake of his head as he wondered why he'd mentally added that adverb. He didn't want to think that way. He was still determined to leave this wretched place, and he'd already planned another escape tonight. While the girls were busy working the floor and their rooms, the men that were supposed to be watching them were occupied with their own drinking and carousing among the locals. He was going to escape when the one that was supposed to be watching him after his last escape attempt grew occupied with Mirage.

He glanced at his book bag nearby, propped against the wall, containing all that he now owned, save for the horrendous clothing he was wearing, now. His feet had blisters where they'd rubbed against the inside of his boots, and it only just added to his misery. Patty gathered her small box of cosmetics and left him with a cloud of patchouli perfume and an airy wave over one plump shoulder.

His stomach growled in protest when he caught the scent of something being grilled from the streets below when she left the room. Calming it with a steady rub of his palm, he rose from the edge of his bed and considered once again how he was going to leave this town. He knew he could catch the train, having to sneak onto one of the carts once it got moving, and that had him antsy with both anxiety and uncertainty. It had been done before, numerous of times, but never by him. He could still remember the day he and his father had happened upon an accident in Boston, where an immigrant had tried to catch the last car of a moving train and had fallen under the moving wheels.

The gruesome sight had left him sick and upset for days, but he'd rather a fate like that than anymore time spent here.

He nearly jumped when he heard the approaching sounds of boots coming his way, and quickly left his room to start heading toward the bar. Patty had told him to met with the bartender, who would then signal his readiness for a customer that may have been waiting, or to signal that he was available. He really didn't want a repeat of last night; couldn't really escape the images he'd been left of a dirty man's dick before him. What the man had wanted, he couldn't even imagine. What had he meant by 'just his mouth'? What was he supposed to do with it?

He narrowly avoided what looked to be Casey and Trapper as they walked past the hallway he took toward the bar, hearing them laughing about something that didn't sound quite so entertaining. Nervousness made his stomach clench with both humiliation and fear as he neared the rowdy area, smelling tobacco and alcohol.

The moment he peeked out from the thick curtain that closed off the hallway, he felt as if he were going to pass out. The saloon was packed with people, the stench of their unwashed bodies unforgivable. Laughter, shouts, music, women shrieking with pretense made him dizzy. He could see Teresa sitting in the lap of a couple of men, taking sips of their drinks.

Miranda was trying to coax a shy cowboy to buy her a drink, and Mirage had two men battling over her as she giggled childishly. The others–Jessie, Patty, Dominique and Angel–were no where to be seen, and he presumed that they were in their rooms.

He really didn't want to step out there, to expose himself to the curious stares as many found themselves staring at his bared collarbone and chest, made up face and pale features. It made his skin burn with color as he took a deep breath and stepped back from the curtain. But he peeked out once more to see that the man that was supposed to be tailing him was busy playing poker down below.

Anxiety flooded him, and he hurried back to his room, taking care in case Casey and Trapper were still lingering about. But they'd taken another stairway down to the street, and were busy shouting at a group of men across the way.

He hurried into his room and grabbed his book bag, tossing aside his new hat. Cautiously making his way out, he used the natural shadows of both the building and the night to scurry across the pathway that wrapped around the second floor. He made his way to the front, frowning when he realized how crowded and impossible it'd be if he tried to make his escape there. He turned and moved back toward his room, to see if he could leave there when Junior and Specs popped up unexpectedly from one of the rooms before the hallway.

Before he could even move, Junior screamed an expletive, already seeing his bag and realizing what he'd been up to. In a flurry of movement, Richie found himself dragged back to his room, Junior thumping him repeatedly at the top of his head, both of them screaming furiously about his attempt. Shouts from the streets turned into cheers and jeers, those sounds quickly muffled when Specs slammed the door shut.

Junior shoved Richie away from him, the blond stumbling in his too big boots, dropping his bag with startled apology. He turned to see the younger Alva pulling his belt from his waist, and immediately began to panic at the prospect of another sound beating. Amid the frenzied lashes of that wretched belt, with Specs trying to grab him while his partner whipped him, Richie screamed apologies and tried to curl in on himself to escape the stinging pain of the belt. The room was filled with such noises, ignored by the constant chaos on the streets below.

When he finally began to register that he was being yanked toward the bed, hearing a guffaw from one of the men that had come up to investigate the noise, it was to his horror to realize that Specs was meaning to tie him down. Junior kept on cursing and whipping in a sort of furious hysteria, and amid all the chaos, Casey and Trapper were there to help them along. Panicked and abject terror shot through the teen when he realized that his pants were being yanked down, that someone was holding his shoulders down. He kicked and screamed himself hoarse, giving incoherent apologies as men began to laugh, and the belt stopped falling over him.

The pain left from the frenzied lashes of Junior's belt left him a little dazed, and the activity had left him panting, winded. He could hear them talking, in a mixture of laughter and incredulous disbelief, and forced himself to focus on what was being said. Junior was arguing with Casey, who was telling him that it had to be done.

That the younger Alva wasn't going to earn any money by keeping him 'coddled'. He wasn't sure what that all meant, just began to realize the exposure of his backside and the humiliating picture he produced with lying on his stomach in this position. He started to turn, his wrists held in front of him by a puzzled Specs, when Junior finally gave Casey what he wanted to hear.

Swallowing hard, Richie heard many unpleasant sounds, but wasn't sure what was going on. A couple of more men were standing in the doorway, with expressions of both disgust and fascination, but he had no idea what was going on behind him. He felt and heard heavy breath on his neck, feeling a heavy and warm body moving against his exposed backside. He started to panic then, giving mindless begs and apologies as he felt Specs tighten his hold on his wrists.

The moment he felt an immense and agonizing mixture of pain and fullness into his rectum, he screamed hoarsely, even as the men began their drunken cheers and shouts. The pain crowded any other thought or sensation he might have registered, dulling all other senses, leaving him with a sort of mindless state in which he registered what was happening; but unable to fully accept it.

The night carried on; the streets continued with their nightly activity. The horrid actions that had taken place in that small, stuffy room was nothing new to those that heard what was happening.

When Teresa awoke sometime during mid-afternoon, feeling stiff and unclean from her own actions the night before, she performed her normal morning routine. She used a treatment that she used after every man was done with her, to discourage pregnancy. It was also so that she could feel a sense of cleanliness, to trick her body into thinking that it was clean when she felt that it wasn't. She used what little clean water she had to wash other areas, and left her room, to find something to eat before the night began.

She had just taken her share of food when the cook passed her another tray, instructing her to take it to the boy upstairs. She was a little surprised at the request, but did as she was instructed. In one way, she was relieved in that the teen finally satisfied his owner, but in another, she felt extremely bad in that it had happened. She really didn't want to see him; didn't want to see the pained humiliation she knew she would see when she saw him; because when human beings broke, it was hard to accept.

She knocked a couple of times on his door and entered without waiting for an answer.

Her eyes fell on the forlorn teen that sat in the back corner of the room, staring at nothing. The room reeked of various odors, but many of them were things she knew well. She held up the tray of food, and set it at the edge of his bed.

Pausing, she took in the defeated expression, the lingering horror that pulled at his features. She didn't know what happened; what he had to do. Just that it had been done.

"Git used to it," she said curtly. "This is your life, now."

She didn't expect a reply, and she didn't get one when she left.

**010101010110**

The tickling began on his right ear, and somewhere between wakefulness and dream land, he began to realize how annoying and uncomfortable that felt. Not really wanting to move, he snorted and shifted slightly, determined to return to the world of dreams. But as he did so, he felt that tickling begin on his left. While some part of him recognized that this was unnatural, that there wasn't the buzz of mosquitos or flies, that this was deliberate, the other part of him was much too interested in sleeping more to fully awaken.

The tickle turned bothersome, and his body reacted quickly to shoo the nuisance away. He just wasn't expecting to slap a very hot patty of horse shit across his face.

"GODDAMN IT, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" he howled, spitting out the small trickles that dribbled down the corners of his mouth. Then he had to groan as shouting seemed to cause his head to pound with an awful amount of pain.

Virgil Hawkins guffawed uproariously as he ran out from the barn, Francis Stone's cursing ringing out the early morning darkness. The sun had yet to break over the mountains that entrapped this area, the sky still dark with enigmatic color. But the ranch was already crawling with movement from those that woke early to start their full days' worth of work, and it wasn't unusual to hear such shouting and cursing at this time in the morning.

A few of the ranch hands chuckled as the larger man stumbled out from the barn, a little whoozy from last night's drinking escapade and a seemingly endless game of poker. He had no idea how he ended up passed out with the animals in the barn. Ranch hands usually slept in the quarters nearby.

"Git on up, cracker!" Virgil shouted just as loudly, performing a few jumping jacks, spurs jangling. "We got us a few diggin's to do out yonder, pardner!"

"Aw, man, fuck you, Hawkins! Eat shit and die, you fucking prick!"

"Oh, uh-uh, no it was not! YOU were the one eatin', cracker jack! Remember, buddy ole pal ole friendola? Or do ya need a little reminder?"

"Stop being so damn chipper in the damn mornin'!"

"Can we possibly go one day without a curse word from you? I swear on my Momma's grave–!"

"EAT ME!"

Virgil laughed once, dodging the rocks that were thrown at him. "No, really, _seriously_! We gotta get on past the south end to fix those fence lines, man. You up? Or do I gotta try harder?"

Hotstreak, as he was aptly named for his temper, yawned loudly as he plopped his worn hat over his head, belatedly remembering the shit he'd just slapped over his face. Virgil laughed uproariously as he bent, dry retching.

"Virgil Hawkins, the sun ain't even up, yet!" the shrill female voice rang out over the ranch, startling a few chickens and sending a few horses nickering. "Cut out that annoying voice of yours!"

"Oh, geez, her voice just _drills_ into my brain," Hotstreak moaned as he clapped his hands over his ears. He crouched in place, determined to stay up despite the violent swaying of the earth underneath his feet. "Someone just shoot me now..."

"That's why you trust _me_ to wake your lazy ass up, man. Not _her_. C'mon...at least I'm kind enough to wake you up gracefully and with a lot of tender lovin'," Virgil said, hand on his chest. Hotstreak scoffed in his direction as he stood and began strolling toward the nearest water pump.

Hawkins' Dakota Ranch was a grand sprawl of timber and ranch land, owned by Virgil's father, Robert. As well off as they were with the natural treasures of the land, Robert preferred the hard working hands of his son and his friends to work the land and the animals they owned.

Settled in the back country within unmapped territory, with a few day's worth of riding into the nearby town, Hawkins' Dakota Ranch depended on the many heads of cattle that roamed the area, and the thick timber that seemed to stretch out beyond the horizon on the eastern section of their land. A creek with quickly running water that connected to a much broader river intersected the farm land, and was used for many of the things a body needed; they had installed hand pumps to coax the water into closer reaches of the house, and this one was used mainly for the thirst of the horses that were milling around in a correl nearby, the small, wet ditch currently dried. As Hotstreak ran the water, the small ditch coaxed water to flow toward the correl, the horses neighing softly as they heard the familiar sound.

"Stop your bitchin' and get on dishin', you two," Adam Evans called cheerfully from nearby, hauling a brand new calf from the barn out to the field, mother cow in tow. "Got a long day ahead of you and me! Got a lot of things to do, and there ain't no need for us to be all la_zy_!"

"Oh, shit, he's doin' it again, V. Stop him. Sic Sharon on him for that idiot talk," Hotstreak grumbled, washing his face. "Rhyming should be outlawed in the country...'Specially so fucking early in the morning!"

"I don't have a say in it, man. I think that's how Sharon got all pregnant."

Both of them shuddered as Adam sent them both a scowl, calf braying loudly in protest.

"I told you boys both, she ain't pregnant," Adam snapped. "She just a little more healthier than she was a year ago. An' don't you be tellin' her I said that."

Virgil grinned suddenly as he jogged over to his friend's side, waiting for him to wash his face. It had been nearly six years since this day when Hotstreak was brought back to the ranch by Robert, passed out in the back of his day carriage, sprawled over the month's supplies. Robert had explained then that he'd needed more hands to tend to the ranch, and the redheaded man seemed sturdy enough to handle the hard work that was demanded of him.

Virgil hadn't trusted him, at first. The hot tempered man, barely two years older than he was, proved reckless and fool hardy, putting himself in dangerous situations without any regard to his own safety. His aiming for a deathwish had made the other hands wary of him, but Virgil began to gradually accept the older boy when he'd overhead Robert telling Sharon that Hotstreak was actually a man trying to hide from the law. Nothing else was really known about him, but Virgil had been raised on stories of outlaws–to actually know one had sent him eagerly trying to match the boy's daredevil escapades.

Slowly, with time, the pair bonded as friends. It had taken awhile, but Hotstreak learned to trust them as they learned to trust him. But once that trust was won, he'd proved time and time again that he was trustworthy and loyal, fiercely defensive of his new family. Though, from time to time, he took risks in going into town with Virgil and the others–he was wanted back in Orleans, but he figured no one would really keep an eye out for him, here. They were nearly thousands of miles away from Orleans, and the law was considered extremely lax in these parts.

The gangly loner had grown into a six foot four wall of muscle, intimidating to those that were unused to such giants. Virgil himself was a couple of inches smaller, but just as strong and sturdy, such genes running in the male side of his family. Together, the pair of them made quite a sight; it wasn't common for whites to hang around with blacks, but then again, it wasn't common for a black to be so successful with a ranch, either. The West was a territory of surprises and unconventional methods that leapt all modern bounds and laws; something that was actually more comforting than repressing.

Slapping the worn rust-colored shirt that his friend was fond of wearing, he said cheerfully, "Daddy decided to send us cattle selling next week, man! What say you to broads and booze?"

"Have I ever complained?" Hotstreak asked cheerily, popping up with a grin.

"Never, but one never knows with you. An', this time, don't be ditchin' me in favor of that Latin lovey you've got hidden away in town...what, she pregnant last time we there!"

"Ah, shit, Virgil, I just gotta look at 'er, and she gets all _with child_..."

Virgil guffawed and stuffed his head back under the water, making him yelp out loud.

"Just you an' me, an' mebbe Adam if Sharon loosens her leash–! We also gots some money to get some material for some brand new clothing..." Virgil elbowed him playfully in the side, eyebrows wiggling.

After fiddling with the water, the pair headed toward the main house, guffawing and elbowing each other over some stupid jokes.

"It's about damn time ya'll got to washing them stanky asses of yours! But it didn't do you no good!"

"Oh, geez, Sharon, it's much too early for me to be seein' monsters," Hotstreak complained as Virgil's older sister prompted her brother to shriek in surprise at her appearance.

Both of them were whacked across the head with a wooden spoon, earning drawn out yelps of pain as Sharon faced them. Barely five feet tall, the little woman shot them both stern expressions, her eyes narrowed with warning.

"Both of you REEK. I can _smell_ you both before I even hear you, and _that's saying something_," she growled, crossing her arms over her small chest. "I suggest you git on outta here and get those stanky asses washed real good before comin' in here and tracking _my_ house with horse shit."

"We took a bath last _Tuesday_!" Virgil exclaimed, rubbing his head. "You know us ranchers ain't ever gonna be all clean all that time! Shit, Sharon!"

"Aw, c'mon, who we tryin' to impress?" Hotstreak scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Ain't no women out this way to get all bothered about!"

"...No pretty ones that don't resemble dogs, anyway," Virgil muttered low under his breath. "I mean, she's my freakin' _sister_, man. We ain't the fuckin' South, here. _Gross_."

Hotstreak suddenly laughed, both of them silenced by another whack of the spoon. Ignoring their growls and curses over the sudden pain, Sharon set her hands on her hips and began walking toward them, intimidating them back toward the doorway.

"It ain't all about _impressions_, you stank ass _creatures_! It's about decorum! Both of you smell like something the pig shit out after a night eatin' on a drunken idiotic's vomit!"

Virgil gave her a curious look. "How would you know what that would smell like? Pig's shit after a night eatin' on a drunken idiot's vomit?"

Sharon grabbed both their ears, and steered them roughly back to the door, both of them yowling in protest. "I _know_ this cuz both of ya been drunk enough to dirty the pig's pen with your stank ass vomit, and I _know_ cuz I had to do your chores that day, cuz the both of ya'll weren't even responding to _nothin_'!"

"That was four years ago!" Hotstreak protested as she shoved them both back onto the porch. "Why you keep bringing that up?"

"Get washed up before you ever set foot back here again!" Sharon snarled, slamming the door shut behind her.

Virgil burped loudly. "How kin she still remember that? Weren't that when Adam shaved off your hair?"

"Yeah. And when your daddy done shaved off all your eyebrows and cut your hair down to the stubs."

"Ah."

"...Shit, that was fucked up when he did that. Took me awhile to grow my hair back out," Hotstreak muttered, reaching up to pat protectively on the uneven strands. The shaggy crop had gone untouched in all that time, occasionally pulled back into a messy ponytail.

"Aw man, me too!" Virgil exclaimed, looking at him as he touched his uneven dreads. "Still don't look all right! Man, I get all these fuckin' _nightmares_ that I wake up with my hair all missing! Every morning, I gotta wake up, check to see if my hair's there, and to see if I got any eyebrows. It's fuckin' horrible, and puts me under a lot of stress...thinkin' of the bowels, man. The bowels."

"Shit...gotta take a bath in this friggin' cold ass water? What she expectin', fuckin' _God_ in the kitchen? Ain't gonna take no damn bath, 'specially when I'm just gonna get all dirty, again."

"Amen, brudder. Just gonna wash important parts and change my shirt. That should throw her off until we eat breakfast." Virgil sniffed at himself experimentally, then abruptly back handed his partner upside the head. Guffawing, he held his hat in place and raced off toward the creek. "Last one there loves Adam up the ass!"

"HEY!"


	3. Alva's Town

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**_  
><em>

**Chapter Two:  
>Alva's Town<strong>

The stallion stood nearly eighteen hands high. Tan, with long black 'socks', a thick neck that proved intensely strong, and hair that shifted from black to wisps of off white. He possessed a strong body that held considerable weight, and was quite trustworthy in helping his owner round up cattle. He was also prone to biting anything that moved, and found it fun to knock other horses around. The stallion was overly proud, stubborn, but magnificent in appearance. Quite a prize among those that appreciated horses, and oftentimes, a pain in the ass (sometimes literally) to Hotstreak.

"You piece of shit horse! Goddamned honkin' horse! I fuckin' hate you! I hate your stupid–!"

Virgil Hawkins was half falling out of his saddle as he guffawed, said stallion prancing nearby, whinnying carelessly as his owner continued to scream obscenities from the creek nearby. It was late afternoon, and the pair had just finished stringing up the last of the broken south end fence when Charger (his given name, but Hotstreak called him some other derogatory name that happened to cross his mind) decided he wanted to piss off his owner and dump him in the creek.

Virgil's horse, Sparky (aptly named for fits of gassy and spectacular shitty moments) pranced alongside Charger with a sort of whinnying neigh. He was a purebred Arabian, quick and deft when Virgil needed him, and quite gorgeous in his own standing. Just as stubborn as Charger, but more gentler, Sparky proved faithful and loyal to those he was familiar with. Virgil watched the bigger stallion carefully, as Charger was known to bite, kick, or shove another rider no matter whom it was just for amusement. Charger used his bigger bulk to knock Sparky aside, Virgil pausing in laughing to calm his darker horse down as the gelding began to kick at Charger.

To save himself, he jumped off, Charger nipping at Sparky. Hotstreak emerged from the creek, grumbling as he waved his hat through the air in an attempt to dry it. His dark jeans were now black in appearance, and his shirt clung to him with a sort of annoying tendency. Virgil looked at him and laughed again.

"You needed that bath, homie G!"

"Shaddup before I toss you in there. Now that I smell all fresh and clean-like, I kin smell you."

"Don't be jealous of the hard-working man smell..."

"Heh..."

"It's gonna rain in a few days," Virgil noticed, looking up at the dark clouds that seemed to continuously loom in the distance. He propped his hat back, wiping sweat from his skin with the sleeve of his shirt. The faded yellow bandanna that he wore around his neck was used to wipe away the collected dust and moisture around his jaw line. "Snow should be comin' along, too."

"It's still too hot for snow. 'Sides, we get the worst of it in February, anyway. It's only August. "

"It ain't THAT hot! Man, I got to usin' a blanket lately! Summer wasn't that hot this year. Plus, pops been complainin' about his knee aching," Virgil said with a tired sigh, both of them looking over to see Charger biting on Sparky's haunches.

"Knock it off, stupid horse! When's he comin' back from the sawmill? He gonna be there for a few more months?" Hotstreak then asked, pulling off his boots and upending them.

"You've got wicked stank feet, dude," Virgil observed.

"Suck my toes." Hotstreak lifted his foot to wiggle his toes in his direction.

"No way! I'd choke on them hooves of yours!"

They laughed briefly. Virgil thought about his father, who spent a majority of his time at the sawmill that processed the timber from his land on the north end of his property. It was a two days' ride from the ranch, and Robert tended to live in that area during various times of the year. The older Hawkins knew he could depend on the men and his only daughter for keeping the ranch running smoothly in his absence.

"Nah, he's coming back by the time we leave, man. You ready for a cattle drive?"

"Nothin' else to do. 'Sides, I've been really wanting to get into town."

"Like, oh my god, me too! I need me a woman, mainly."

"Hawkins, you wouldn't EVEN know what to do with one!"

"Hey! I peeped in on you before!"

"WHAT? You pervert!"

Virgil was laughing once again. "Naw, man, just kidding. Like I would ever want to see you humpin' on some chick. You'd be all like a dog, man. Just...argh, roawf! Roawf! ...Wait a minute, it don't go there, do it? Man, hold on. I need to start over..."

Hotstreak started laughing as Virgil started humping the air.

Charger suddenly began bucking wildly, snorting as Sparky focused on a point away from him. Both men quieted, hands reaching for the low slung guns at their respective hips when a man's laughter rang out from beyond the area where the two horses stood.

"Man, you two are _rugged_!"

From out of one of the grassy knolls nearby, a lone man emerged, dressed only in a loin cloth, long dark hair swinging freely with the afternoon breeze. He was chuckling loudly, teeth displayed in merry amusement. He had a rifle slung behind him, and wore a simple breastplate strung from weasel bones. He was Hotstreak's age, easily recognizable by the scar that crossed his hawk-beak nose, half an ear missing on his right.

"Here I was, all practicing my _coup_ skills, and you two mess me up with your stupid off-ness, man. Can't keep myself from being too mysterious and sneaky when you two are being dumb..."

"What you all spyin' on us for, man?" Virgil exclaimed, reaching out to bump fists with the Indian. "You know we all boring."

"I thought you two were going to get all serious and man up. But you two are just as rugged as before, man!"

Hotstreak laughed, slapping his open palm. "Where's your entourage? You all alone out here in the wild? Some white guy might come poppin' caps with ya all alone!"

"Not with you two here to protect little ole me!" The Indian, Kills-Many-White-People, laughed again. "Sides, you two can scare them off with those stupid words of yours. Yanno? What ya'll doin' way out here? Your cattle's out thataway..."

"Man, we're just fixing the fence. The wood needs ta get replaced, but we don't got the supplies, yet."

"Oh, ennit, huh? Look at that...huh. Prolly them deer folk, man. They all crazy, nowadays."

"Man, I don't wanna hear about no stupid animal people!" Hotstreak complained. "I get these nightmares that just don't go away, sometimes, after hearin' that. Then I get all paranoid at night, when I'm all by myself and vulnerable and all alone...white guys have issues, man. 'Specially me."

Kills-Many-White-People laughed, Virgil chiming in. He clapped his best friend on his shoulder, earning a punch in the chest for doing so. "You should hear him, Kills. 'Oh, shit! Virgil! There's some wolf men after me!' He's all whimpering in his sleep, man. It's fuckin' _hilarious_."

"Stone, you're such a baby. Ain't no such thing as wolf men–there's only buffalo women, yo. You gotta be careful when you see one. You think all these nasty thoughts about her, you gonna end up like nothing, man. Just like the legend says."

"I don't believe in that," Hotstreak scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Believe it. It true. They say that Jesus walked the land, but who remembers seeing _him_?"

Virgil laughed, reaching out to catch Sparky before he joined Charger down the creek. Sparky snorted in protest, and stretched his neck out to nibble on Virgil's hat.

"What you up to anyway, man?"

"Aw, we're moving camp. Setting up towards winter grounds, now."

"_This_ early?"

"Yeah. Snow's comin' earlier and earlier these days! Global warming, man."

"...whatever the fuck that is," Hotstreak muttered.

Kills-Many-White-People laughed. "Ennit, huh? My great grandfather saw it in a dream, once. Now the chief's all paranoid that we too low on the ground. Gonna start heading up the mountains, he says. I was like, _bullshit_! Ain't lugging no one hundred teepees up some damn mountain..."

"Where's your sister?" Hotstreak asked, wiggling his eyebrows. "She staying faithful?"

"She ain't seein' no white boy, yo!" Kills-Many-White-People scoffed. "She all racist and shit! Sides...she said she saw you with some guy in one of her dreams. Says you all loved up with him. That's when she turned all racist."

"'With some _guy_'? Aw, man, all you Indians be _trippin_'..."

"C'mon, man! We listen to those things! They all save lives, an' shit. Gotta be true. Gotta be all... you know..._respectful_ of what we're given! 'Sides, if she seeing you with some guy, man, prolly for the best."

"Why's that?"

"Cuz everyone knows you can't even satisfy a lady!" Kills-Many-White-People laughed and slapped hands with Virgil, who chimed in. "Even Virgil knows that!"

Virgil abruptly stopped laughing to look at him suspiciously.

"Ah, fuck you guys!"

"When you got done with Kicking Horse's sister, she was all tellin' people that you didn't go for long! Thought she was atop of a wild horse an' got just as sore!"

"That ain't true!"

"You hurt his feelings, man. Look at him. All bashful now that his secret's out," Virgil cooed, laughing once more when Hotstreak tried to kick him.

Kills-Many-White-People laughed, turning to walk away. "See you guys! Next time, when I see you two, ya'll better stop all that weird ass bullshit you guys always laughing around, about."

"What 'weird ass bullshit'?" Hotstreak hollered after him. "Wasn't it you guys that smoke that weed stuff just to talk to some dude?"

Virgil laughed again. "Man...you all bitter, Francis. No wonder they be callin' you 'Hotstreak'. Ain't cuz of yer temper–!"

"Don't be callin' me by that fuckin' name, Virgil! Fuckin' hate that name!"

"All right, _all right_! But, seriously–if Spotted-Deer been havin' those dreams, you better get all worried, man. Ain't she the one that had those dreams of you havin' kids with that chick?"

"...Coincidence."

"And Flys-In-The-Sky...when that one been havin' dreams of you breakin' your leg that one time?"

"Man, it was sabotage! I was framed!"

"And Punches-With-Many-Fists TOLD you he was dreamin' about you gettin' the clap from that whore from downtown! Then what? You got it!"

"Man-! That always happens! You got it, too!"

"Yeah, well, just sayin'...sometimes those weirdos get it right." Virgil then studied him as Hotstreak whistled for Charger, the stallion hurrying over, ears flicking around anxiously. "Actually, kinda sounds weird, but...I can see you with a guy."

"Man, Hawkins...think you got too much sun. Let's go home. See if Sharon cooked up that meatloaf she been promising."

"Ah, god, that shit's DA BOMB! For once in her pathetic life, she gets it right! Last one back has to give Sharon a foot rub! YEE HAW!"

**010101010110**

The week began with a day of rounding up what cattle Robert wanted sold. Hotstreak, Virgil, Adam and a few other hands left the ranch to search out the animals, and drove them back to the ranch to wait for the men to pack up for the trip. Loading up on supplies for the ride to and from, the men then headed out, driving the nearly one hundred and fifty head through uncharted territory to the nearest available town. It was a long drive, but full of laughter and banter that the men were known for. Halfway through the trip, Kills-Many-White-People and several of his friends joined the crowd to joke about various happenings within their social circle and throughout the territory.

There were many stories about towns throughout the West suddenly dropping communication with the outside world, but many were figuring with the rush into unexplored territories, and the many stories of gold in the mountains, that they were being abandoned just as quickly as they shot up.

By the time they drove the cattle into town, into a correl located just outside the limits, the men were tired, but eager to receive their payment for the price of cattle, and the extra money Robert had left for their pay. Many of them had plans for the various saloons, women and personal supplies, Hotstreak and Virgil included.

They rested the first day, then headed out that night, separating to visit various places. The two younger men hit the saloon closest, which was owned by Alva. Eager for drink and women, the men were considerably happy that the place was in full swing by the time they arrived. The laughter, candle light and nocturnal activity by those enjoying drinks and broads seemed to spill out of the place each time the doors opened and shut.

Hotstreak walked in first, narrowly avoiding a fistfight between two Spanish women, men cheering them on with mugs of beer and money. Virgil laughed and followed closely behind them. Both men were noticed quickly–their height was often rare for today's men, standing over six feet tall, and it was rare for a white and a black to be together, equally. They were noticed, grimly examined for any sort of trouble, then acknowledged as a couple of out of towners eager for some relaxation. While a few people knew who they were from working with Robert, the pair weren't that well known, as they tended to stay out of town and out of trouble. Hotstreak usually stayed low to avoid being noticed for anything he had left in his past.

Once they were out of the path of activity, Hotstreak pushed his hat high above his forehead, to look around the saloon curiously. He was wearing one of his best shirts–a dark red and brown combination that Sharon had fixed from him, the material imported from New York. It fit his shoulders in a way that defined the width, and showed off his lean form, fitting well into a new pair of jeans that were tucked into a black pair of boots. He had his hat in place, as well as his gun belt, slung low on his hips. Virgil was dressed almost in the same manner, but with a dark blue and yellow shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a buckskin vest with light fringe on the back. He'd left his hat at home, preferring to gather his dreads to tie them back at his neck.

Virgil shifted restlessly before giving a small, impatient whine.

"Some manly whiskey first, then I guess I'll decide which one's prettier," he said with some final decision, frowning as he watched a coy white girl eye him from the lap of one of the men nearby.

Hotstreak snickered, looking at the available girls that were wandering the floors, working their visible assets and adding to the noise with their forced laughter.

Frankly, none of them were very interesting, and he decided that perhaps this wasn't the place to get his fun.

"There's a newer place up the street, man," he said, patting Virgil's chest with the back of his hand, drawing his attention. "Let's go up there and see what's up, first."

"We just got here! Let's git somethin' to drink first, THEN head over there! Dunno, maybe they got some better lookin' girls, there...lookit that one...I'll be smushed!" Virgil laughed, pointing at Patty. "But I'll bet I'll be callin' her 'momma' by the time I get through drinkin'!"

"That one right there looks like Spotted Deer, man. She prolly only ten years old, man! Lookit her!" Hotstreak said, giving an annoyed expression at Mirage as she trailed through the floor with her tiny frame and baby features.

"That's...disturbing...the one with the red don't look that bad...maybe I'll try her." Virgil eyed Teresa for a few moments, then wrinkled his nose. "Nah, never mind. She looks _mean_, dude. She'd have my balls in those talons of hers and make _me_ call _her_ 'daddy'."

"Heh. Looks expensive, man. You might need more than five dollars wit' that one..."

"Well...I'll start the round. You buy the next. Ho?"

"Ho."

They made their way to the bar, and Virgil bought the first round. One round turned into two, then three, then, when Virgil found interest in a poker game across the way, Hotstreak sat at the bar and nursed drink after drink as he waited for the younger man to come back. It was funny, how he got along so well with him. Virgil was only twenty, but he acted so much younger. Hotstreak himself was twenty-three, yet, but he knew his appearance made him look older than he actually was.

The night continued on with beer after beer, visit to outhouse after another; he considered taking up on one of the girls' offer–Jessie did look appealing with her exotic, Latin looks–but he wasn't interested in paying the price they offered.

_Alva sure is a greedy sumbitch_, he thought after shooing her away. While he knew he could visit Maria on the other side of town, he really wasn't up to running into her husband if he happened to be home. That relationship had started the first time he'd arrived in this territory; while she was married, her husband worked the rail lines, and she often got 'lonely' and 'bored' while he was away. She was a fun lay, but he wasn't in love with her.

Not that he'd _want_ to fall in love.

It was halfway through the night when he began to feel extremely lethargic. Hotstreak was sure he had too many beers, which was why his eyesight grew blurry, and he felt suddenly very tired and exhausted.

Before he could even consider what it all meant, he was distracted by the smell of lavender, something that reminded him of pretty girls and wide meadows. But then, something else caught his attention, because the boy that was suddenly standing next to him looked either that, or a very masculine girl.

He lifted his head, trying to ignore the wave of nausea that hit him at the movement, then peered at the androgynous person closely, trying to figure out what he was seeing. Dressed in very tight blue jeans, with a light blue and lavender plaid shirt, the boy/girl displayed a bony collarbone and a thin neck, their skin soft and pale in a sense that amazed him. The collar was pulled so that the open material hung loosely around the junction of their neck/shoulders, something that instantly drew the eye and made one wonder if they were that color all the way down.

They were slender, small and tidy; he drunkenly figured that the top of their head would barely touch his chest. Sitting up, still staring with a sense of drunken puzzlement, he began to realize that the shoulders were too wide for a girl's, that the hips were too slim. He lowered his head to look underneath the brim of a brand-new hat, seeing a rounded jaw that was tightly clenched, eyes rimmed with kohl, and a sort of indifferent expression on a boyish face. He was momentarily startled in that a male was wearing color on his face–especially around his eyes. The more Hotstreak looked, the more he realized that the boy's eyes were more gold with the accentuation of the black liner, throwing him for a drunken spin.

The boy looked at him, then, startled in that he was being looked at so closely. Then his expression turned guarded, anxious, his eyes darting way with a touch of insecurity.

The smell of lavender was coming from him, Hotstreak realized, sniffing covertly.

A little more certain of what he was seeing, he relaxed once more, exhaling heavily as he rested his chin into his folded arms atop of the bar.

"Man, that's a crazy getup," he muttered, loudly enough to be heard by the boy and the bartender, drawing their attention. Why couldn't the room stop spinning? He didn't think he drank THAT much, to be wasted before the night was even halfway over. And where was Virgil?

"Think you had a little too much, pardner," the bartender said cheerfully, lifting the mug up and away from Hotstreak's loosely curled fingers. "I think my friend here has a room for you to pass out in."

"S'okay," Hotstreak muttered, waving away the suggestion, never seeing the bartender's firm nod at the boy that stared at him apprehensively. "None–got one of my own."

"His is closer, buddy. Here, he'll help you. 'Sides, if you pass out here, think of the sheisty bitches that'll come by and rob ya for what ya got on ya. Don't want THAT, wouldja?"

Hotstreak felt his face crinkle with thought, then straightened up top the barstool, frowning as he started to sluggishly pat his pockets, making sure he was still armed and that his wad of money was still where he'd left it. He slid off the stool, then, nearly knocking over a couple of men that were propping each other up as they headed toward the doors. He began looking the crowded room for Virgil, but the candle lit room and his own drunkeness hindered his search.

He felt steadying hands on his side as he started to walk forward, swaying a little too much. He ended up knocking over a girl with a tray into a table of poker playing men, causing them all the shout aloud and protest. He couldn't be THAT drunk...it usually took him awhile to get this plowed. Without nary an apology or regretful action, he rose from the table, registering that the boy was trying to help him stand.

"Fine, fine, jush...jush a little while," he muttered, letting the kid swing his arm over his shoulders, propping him awkwardly. For a moment, he felt himself sway to the left, nearly dragging the boy with him until he was forcefully hauled forward, encouraged to walk.

Meanwhile, Richie was gritting his teeth, struggling to get the big, smelly man to walk with him as he made uncertain steps toward the stairway. It took a lot of pulling, shoving and encouraging to get the big redhead to follow him up the stairway and pass the thick curtain. His mind was already working on distracting himself from what he had to do; he was sweating slightly in his strenuous efforts, and feeling his stomach work that now familiar clench of nerves and regret.

Jerry, the man that was now permanently placed outside his room, helped him with opening his door and closing it behind them once they were in. With a heavy exhale, Richie shoved the big redhead onto his lumpy bed, frowning as he then struggled to turn him onto his back. It took awhile, making him grunt and work just to get him to turn.

_He had to be over two hundred pounds_, Richie figured, swearing quietly when the man nearly fell out of his bed.

He then sighed quietly, hating what he had to do as he stared down at the broad body before him. The bartender, Ted, tended to mix some of his drinks with a potent sort of drug that rendered some customers sluggish, drugging them into thinking that they'd had too much to drink.

It was easy for Richie, then, to sweep in and convince the drunken customer to his room, to 'entertain' and satisfy him as quickly as possible before they grew clear headed enough to realize what they were doing. Most men, when awakened naturally from their drugged state, weren't too happy to realize that they'd allowed a young male to arouse and satisfy them. Ted didn't pay too much attention when he drugged his customers, so Richie was caught a few times when he was in the midst of working. It was never pleasant when he was caught, and he was always tense and rushed when he began working.

Since that night when Casey and the others had taken their turns on him, he'd felt more defeated. More accepting in that this was his life, now. Measures were taken to keep a closer eye on him, and once word leaked to the others on what he could do, more men were willing to take the chance of visiting him. For the first two days after that night, he was sure he'd seen Hell; his body screamed with torture and horror whenever someone chose to use him in that manner, and his mouth was more than sore and tired when put to work.

Nearly a week after, he finally gave in to watching the girls work their customers–hiding in their closets, or behind paper room dividers–and learned from them on how to please their men. It had been unbearable at first. But the more he practiced, the more the pain seemed bearable, now.

He never enjoyed anything; he couldn't see how the girls could fake their enthusiasm, their silly orgasmic noises–he couldn't bring himself to enjoy such acts when he'd learned first hand how hateful and hurtful the acts truly were.

But Ted had taken pity on him, as he had with Mirage a few years back. After taking his free turn with Richie, he told the boy about the drugs, and worked out a plan with him. He'd drug the customers, and that would give Richie the chance to work them before they fully awakened. It was 'up to him' what course of actions he wanted to take with his customers, and even suggested stealing a few bucks from a man or two. Take their valuables to give to Junior. It was rotten, uncharacteristic, but it was much better than being forced. With a heavy heart, Richie had taken that chance, and Ted had worked with him since.

Now, faced with this big redhead, Richie figured he'd better work fast. He'd seen his hands, and didn't want them beating on him when he awoke.

He took off his hat, setting that aside, then slipped off his boots. He forced himself numb so that he wouldn't have to feel his guilt or disgust in these actions, and stilled himself for a moment so that he could control his sudden shaking. Exhaling deeply, he then crawled onto the bed, straddling the bigger man's hips.

He was snoring away, passed out, and Richie frowned at him as he worked at his belt buckle. He quickly removed the gun belt, setting that on the floor before resuming his work on his jeans. All he had to do was make him cum; that's all he had to do. But he abandoned the task and began patting his pockets, searching for money or valuables to take and hide before the man woke up. He found a wad of cash in his left boot, and counted out the amount with considerable unhappiness.

This man had probably worked hard to earn it, and here Richie was, stealing it just so that he could escape a beating.

He felt horrible about every act of stealing he'd done, but he feared beating even more. He pocketed at least half of the cash, to separate one pile for Junior, and another as a secret stash for himself. To use in his next escape attempt. He put the rest of the cash back, then continued with unbuckling and unzipping his jeans.

The room was quiet save for the noises that crept in from the loud activities of the saloon, and from the snores that emitted regularly from the big man. He knew he should get to work; to get this man aroused, do his thing really quick, and have him dressed and resettled at the bar, but it wasn't often for him to see this sort of masculine beauty. The men that he served were usually quite smelly and repugnant, with thick bellies or gaunt frames; there were some that had muscle such as this, but he'd been distracted by their meanness to appreciate it.

He licked his lips, exhaling quietly as he stared down at the cowboy's chest, watching as it rose and fell with each breath. Shifting slightly, he gazed in open wonder at the man's face, reaching out to push his shirt open so that he could run his hands over his muscled sides, shivering slightly at the touch. He straightened slightly, lowering one hand onto the broad chest, tracing his fingers over the expanse with a curious sort of air. Hard muscle, warm skin, the light prickles of hair under his palm made his stomach shiver in that strange way once more. He lifted both hands to run them over the man's skin again, brushing his nipples with his thumbs, making them pebble.

When he realized how much he wanted to taste them, he had to lift his hands off of him, the foreign thought puzzling him. He hadn't the desire, before–and the very thought made him blush intensely once more.

_He had green eyes_, Richie realized, looking onto his face, shifting onto his hands and knees over his body.

He'd seen them in the bar's light, peering at him drunkenly. This man had a strong, square jaw, a wide mouth and thin lips, a patch of hair carefully tended to just below the bottom. Richie touched that as well, lightly running his finger over the small patch, marveling at the stiffness and the care that had been used to maintain that certain area. He then carefully touched the high cheekbones and the angular lines of his forehead. He could see a vein throbbing calmly on the right side of the man's forehead, and carefully ran his fingertip over that, as well. He found himself marveling over the thickness of his hair, lightly running his fingers through the cascade of red, touching his ears. When he looked back at his face, he stared at the furrowed, dark eyebrows, and marveled at the soft tips of his closed eyelashes.

_Green eyes_...

He could feel the exhaled breath on his chin, and he, after a moment's hesitation, bent his face slightly to catch some of that airy movement against his skin. Leaning in closer, he could smell traces of aftershave and pungent male sweat. He winced, but found himself closing his eyes as he pressed his cheek against the other's face, feeling the prickly stubble that scratched at his skin. He smiled slightly at the feel, just rubbing his cheek against his stubble, listening to him snore.

He then straightened, to look down into his face, smoothing away shaggy, dark red hair. He had a visible tan line from his hat on his forehead. His hair smelled of sweaty musk and leather. Richie inhaled deeply of it, then coughed.

With another small smile, Richie lowered himself to touch his lips to the man's collarbone, inhaling more of that wonderful man scent. He kissed softly on the warm skin, trailing down to his chest, tickling his own chin with the chest hair he'd encountered.

Then he jerked himself straight, wondering what he was doing. He hated this act no matter how drugged the man was, or what it did to please the customer. But the thing that kept him moving was the thought of Junior beating him, and he worked quickly.

**010101010110**

He dried what he'd cleaned, then started to struggle with his pants, pulling them back up his thighs. The man was just so heavy, that he grunted and struggled to do so. By the time he'd managed to get his pants into place, he was panting again. Richie climbed off to pull on his own pants, his knees shaking as he did so. He kept glancing over at the big man, stealing appreciative glances as he fastened his pants. He left his shirt untucked as he quickly climbed over him once more, buttoning and latching. He pulled his gun belt on and around him awkwardly, fastening it a little too tightly because he was a little scared in that those six shooters would be used on him.

He gave a startled sound as big hands clamped over his wrists, and he was pulled over the man, hearing him groan, "C'mon, girl, one more. Promise I won't go fast, this time...promise..."

Embarrassed, but finding the comment a little funny, Richie struggled to get out of his grasp. He gave an awkward yelp as the man rolled over him, pinning him to his own bed. Fright overtook him for a couple of moments before he heard the resuming of heavy breathing and slight snoring. He rested there for a moment, feeling a heavy tug of his eyelids. He still wasn't used to the schedule, and he did have trouble sleeping, on constant alert that Junior and his cronies were going to visit him, again.

He laid there underneath the bigger man, surrounded by his man scent, pinned by his heavy weight, and felt...almost content. Almost secure. As if this man could block out all his troubles and all his worries, and keep him safe and sound. He closed his eyes in misery, relaxing just slightly underneath the strange sensation. Tears burned at the back of his eyelids, and his chest constricted painfully. He wanted to go back home so badly...to stop this nightly continuance of torture and humiliation.

He wanted the safety of his mother and father, again.

His fingers curled into his blankets, and for a brief moment, he almost began to cry, his body throbbing with the now familiar stretching of his anus, the tingly sensation of having been invaded. But he struggled to keep himself composed, feeling the big man suddenly shift, arm curling around his waist.

Suddenly, he was suffocating, unable to draw in breath–it wasn't from the position, but from the fact that he'd taken too long. He shouldn't have taken his time in looking at this man, earlier.

At that very moment, Jerry began pounding on the door with a low grumble. Richie felt the man jerk against him in surprise and realized with some horror that if he'd heard that sound, then he was more than aware to realize what had happened. He froze, every limb locked tight as he felt the big redhead shift on him.

"Th' 'ell?" he heard him grumble, lifting his face from the back of his neck. "Go 'way! Sunnofvabeeach...c'mon baby, go back to sleep. We'll make 'nuther kid in da'mornin'..."

Richie made a face, finding the comment absurd. Despite himself, he had to wonder if this man was married, or just possessed a mistress of some sort. It just made him feel very down in that he wouldn't have a chance at that sort of lifestyle. If he ever left this place, who would ever want him as a husband?

This made his throat tight, and his eyes burn once more.

The man shifted again, and Richie heard his quick inhale of breath. Jerry pounded on the door once more, grumbling at him to hurry up. At that, the man shifted off of him, and Richie quickly rolled out from underneath him, jumping to his feet. Looking over, he saw the redhead blink in a dazed sort of manner, then focus on him.

For a few silent moments, he watched those green eyes study him, recognize him, then fill with a sort of horror that Richie saw commonly in those that had, in a few moments, realized what had been done to them. And the man was shifting off the bed in a flurry of outraged movements, lunging at him with a fairly enraged and drunken snarl.

Without much of a choice, Richie simply dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, protecting his face. No customer wanted to see marks on his whore, but he could hide bruises easily with his shirt. He felt fingers ensnare within his hair, and he was yanked upright, into a sitting position. He gave a frightened gasp as one large hand snaked between his legs to grope his privates. Not for anything arousing; just to check to see what was there. His head was slammed off the wall as he heard the man give an enraged shout.

"No way! No fuckin' way! Ain't–! This is fuckin' _bullshit_!" he screamed in horrified disbelief. He was suddenly touching himself, then feeling along his backside, as if he could discover any damage done to him by this boy. Finding nothing, his hands touching his groin and recognizing the familiar pull of a previous orgasm, he gave a disbelieving snarl.

But Jerry was already moving into the room, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the door, coaxing him in a sort of gentle voice to leave. Richie continued to keep his position until after he heard the door shut, the two men shouting at each other outside. His shoulders started shaking first, until his entire body felt tight with rigid vibration, his stomach roiling with regret, helplessness and disgust. He hated what he had to do, but it was admittedly better than to have a man sober and conscious, to hurt him purposefully. To have a man unconscious and unable to hurt him left him feeling guilty and evil, but only because he would prefer to remain unscathed. It was wretched, filled with rotten consequence, but he just had to do it. _He had to do it_.

By the time he managed to get a hold of himself once more, inhaling shakily and with a trace of tears, the door opened again, Jerry looking at him.

"Get up," he said in disgust. "Junior says one more, for the night. An' he better have his money."

Richie said nothing to him. The man would have his money.


	4. The Arrival

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**A/N: OML…**I've done a lot of editing, but the profanity…o-my._  
><em>

**Chapter Three:  
>The Arrival<strong>

The afternoon was bright, but there were thick, thunderous clouds that roved ahead, moving over the area and bringing with them brief episodes of rain. It smelled heavenly, but at the same time, the pungent scent of the cows across the way overtook some of those pleasant smells. All in all, it was a very cheery day, not considering the inner circumstances.

The correl took up over five acres just outside the town, but was located near the boarding areas that men commonly used when passing through the territory. The bars were located nearby, with the rest of the town sprawling toward the north in a sort of jumble that offered many services that were needed. Just beyond the correl's north east side was the back road that would lead out of town, and into the mountains that were often tipped with snow during the cold months. It would be a week's worth of riding through that dangerous, uncharted territory, with a non cooperative band of Indians watching over the area, highway and mountain men that liked to prey on unsuspecting settlers, and basic variety of dangerous animals. The terrain wasn't nice, either.

The small town was surrounded with an interesting and often irritating to travelers terrain, dotted with shrubs, boulders of broken variety from the nearby mountains, and canyons that followed the main river. It was all uneven territory, graced with knolls, sudden dips of earth, and trees that weren't too tall. But it worked, giving the area a sort of untarnished beauty that gave a visitor unexpected glimpses of treasures that hid within the area.

Hotstreak didn't tell Virgil what had happened to him last night–that was way too embarrassing and humiliating. To bring up something like that would mean circumstances that he didn't want to think about. Hotstreak frowned sullenly as he sat atop of Charger, watching as Adam and a few other hands milled about, watching their cattle as they were inspected by the workers. At two cents a pound for each cow, the money was adding up. Soon, the group would then be resting up, then heading back to the ranch. They had planned to leave at night, following the main road out toward the south end of town, and taking the lonely trail back toward the canyon they'd followed to get back to their territory. Moving at night was dangerous, but they knew the roads well. They just wanted to avoid the heat of the day, to keep their animals from overheating during the long journey back to the ranch.

Virgil was busy talking with the elder man that oversaw the operations within the correl, and the pair were discussing today's politics. Something Hotstreak really wasn't interested in, unless it concerned him in some way.

Last night had been pretty shocking; even more so to stumble back into his room and discover that half of his cash was missing. He had no doubt that little scumwad had taken it before he awoke.

The little scumwad with odd eyes that reminded him more of beer than anything else. Which really wasn't that unpleasant...and he really didn't smell bad, either...he was just scum for being who he was, and for what he did.

In some uncertain way, he felt bad for the chit–no matter that he was a boy, he was still almost girlish and worked a woman's profession, so Hotstreak made himself feel better by referring to him as a girl. The chit didn't look very old, nor was he anywhere near masculine. Just a young, awkward boy that shouldn't be where he was.

He wondered why Alva had taken the chance with taking in a young boy and making him work the profession. Was there really men out there that would take the chance? How long had the chit been working here?

He sighed low, Charger shifting with a snort as one of the cows tried to escape the confining pen she was standing in.

Hotstreak shifted his hat, to look over at the building that Alva owned. It was a dump, for sure–two stories, made out of weathered wood...at night it looked festive and wonderful, eye catching to those that were looking for a good time, but during the day, it merely resembled something useless and foreboding. The back of the building faced the correl, with a wooden stairway curving up from the side and topping at the second floor. There was a despondent door that faced the correl, and he remembered that he'd taken it last night; some scummy man ordering him to leave, that his business was done here. He'd been escorted down those stairs as if he were some sort of... criminal.

He thought of the boy once more. Thinking of the way he'd simply curled in on himself, awaiting a beating, not even trying to fight back. Seasoned mechanics, really.

He felt a little bad for it, actually. Hotstreak felt that it was his fault anyway, for getting drunk. How had that happened, anyway?

Charger nipped at Virgil as the younger man approached, Hotstreak using one of his heels into the stallion's flank to punish him.

"What you lookin' at, man?" Virgil asked curiously, tipping his hat to peer over at Alva's place. "Man...I lost so much money, there. Lost it all on a pretty lil lady named Jessie...but, whew! Was it worth it!"

"Oh, _ew_, Virgil," Hotstreak muttered, thinking about her advances last night. "She looked like a man."

"Oh, no she did not. Don't be sullen an' pouty with me, Stone. You just jealous that I got it first."

"I'm just jealous that I ain't an idiot like you."

"You're always jealous of me, man! Don't be playa hatin'!"

"Please, son. That's all your ego, talkin'."

Both of them laughed briefly, and while Virgil started talking about the money they were going to get from the cattle, Hotstreak saw the little door on the back of the building open, letting out that boy from last night. He was dressed in a greyish shirt, today, with those same tight jeans. Barefooted, he realized, watching as the boy settled himself at the edge of the platform, sticking his arms through the railing to rest against them.

Hotstreak waited for a few moments, wondering if he were going to be recognized. Staring at the boy, he could see how awful he looked in the bright light of the afternoon; the gray smudged eyes, the stark paleness of his skin, the sickly, gaunt frame that made him seem fragile. Someone with that sort of frame didn't make it very long out here, unless they were taken care of. It wouldn't do for him to do any of the hard work at the ranch, unless he started out slowly. Virgil had been thin and short, once, but the boy had worked daily since he was old enough to walk. He'd grown into the hard work; Hotstreak had to wonder what the boy was good for if he were in another setting.

Virgil whapped his thigh, making Charger glance over curiously, turning his large head to nibble at Hotstreak's boots.

"Why you ain't payin' attention to me?" Virgil demanded, Hotstreak looking down at him to give him a reply. "I'm givin' you all my love an' glory, an' you throwin' it all away to ignore me!"

"Ah...that's the boy we hear gettin' hisself whipped all the time..."

Instead of answering Virgil, he was distracted by the older man that had walked over, noticing whom the other man was looking at. Virgil turned, looking up as well, but the boy either didn't see them looking at him, or didn't care. They were off to the side, near the north end of the correl, but Hotstreak doubted that he'd stay out there long once he recognized the big man on the stallion. Either that, or he had some balls sitting out there, watching them.

"What about 'im?" Virgil asked curiously.

"Word is, Alva had him shipped from clear over the East. Just to work for him. Specially talented, he'd said. Or so I heard." The older man gave them a pointed look. "Works with the girls, there."

Virgil blinked cluelessly, and Hotstreak felt his face burn with some color, so he fiddled with his hat to distract whomever was noticing how he was blushing. He wouldn't know, really, having been unconscious that time. But knowing with the familiar aftereffects of orgasm that something had been done.

"Works with...like...a bodyguard?" Virgil looked over with a skeptical expression. "Don't look very intimidating! Unless he one of those weirdos that does all that kung-fu stuff like them Chinese do. You think? Do he?"

"Nah, Hawkins. I said WORKS with the girls...he does what they do."

Virgil blinked again, then frowned. "He teaches them?"

Hotstreak finally exploded, frapping him with his hat. "Idiot! He's a whore, too!"

Virgil startled, then gave them both a bewildered expression, eyes wide. "Not uh! You pullin' on my boot?"

"NO!"

"He's right, Hawkins. He's a whore, too. Didn't think that men would be too right into that sorta thing. But Alva, he likes to cater to whomever's willin' to buy. If men be wantin' a boy 'stead'of'a girl, then...he's gonna git around to pleasin' them." The older man shrugged. "Ain't too fond of the idea meself, but...I hear people are gettin' around to the idea. Milly thinks it's a damn shame and abomination."

His wife's name was spoke with much respect and fondness. "Could be millions of other things for a boy his age to do. To be...doin' what he's doin'...well, that ain't right. Got them new preacher up the way makin' a big to-do about it. His religion states that for men to want to perform such acts are goin' to Hell. Hah, ain't like anyone really cares, though, huh? Half of these people are already headed there. Most of them think they already there, in fact!"

"Is that right...?" Virgil trailed off, looking over at the boy once more, who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. "Huh. Never even gave thought to that sorta thing. I mean, it ain't that uncommon. Those Indians up there, they speak about that sorta thing. But...it's like...coveted. Ain't no one talk about it."

"'Sides, them two working the Plum Creek ranch up south is suspected of being that way," Hotstreak muttered.

"Tha's right! George and–and–!"

"Tom." Hotstreak then looked puzzled. "No...Frank? Fran...Franz."

"Albert! Not George...huh...not even close..."

"Franz and Albert Wilkins? Said they were cousins!" the older man muttered in incredulity. "Huh. Germans..."

"They ain't bad at all! They don't do nothin' that makes them disgusting," Virgil placated. "They still just rough cowboys with a mad load of ale on them!"

"Pretend to pass out one day at their house, then, Virgil. See what happens," Hotstreak said with a grin as Virgil looked at him with a scowl.

The older man laughed. "You boys stop baitin' on each other. Well, on this note...heard you had another kid along the way...?"

"Aw, man, no way! I ain't seen her in over half a year–! Well...hm. NO! It's not mine, this time," Hotstreak said with some confidence. He counted the months off his fingers, then shook his head firmly, grinning. "Not mine."

"You visit them kids, yet?" Virgil asked suspiciously.

"Well, I was thinking of stopping by before we leave...take them some stuff...but if her husband's around, I'm just gonna leave some things at the mail carrier's. Arrange for them to take it to them."

"Pussy."

"Don't want no drama."

"_Pussy_. You just afraid of the real man."

"Afraid as all out, man. He all big and large. Might have loosened cheeks when I come back."

They laughed again, the older man chiming in with a shake of his head. "You two..."

Hotstreak laughed again at the very idea, but his eyes snaked over to where the boy continued to sit. He couldn't see where the boy was looking from his position, but his face drew with a frown, and he wondered how he could get his money back. He took Charger by the reins, tapping the roof of his mouth with his tongue.

"Gonna go look for something, V. I'll be right back," he muttered.

**010101010110**

He still couldn't sleep; racked with immense guilt, trouble, and homesickness, Richie sat outside his room, his legs dangling over the edge of the second floor platform, arms swinging from the railing. He was staring out over the correl, hearing thunder rumble in the distance, and listening to the cows braw morosely. The shouts of the men that worked the cows within the correl corresponded with the sounds that filled the small town. Everyone seemed to be doing something except for the men that were hanging around the correl, laughing and talking over something funny. He couldn't really pinpoint sight from sight, as he was without his glasses, but the blur of shapes and color told him what he needed to know.

He kept thinking about the cowboy he'd serviced, last night. He couldn't help but blush over everything that had been done, over what he'd touched, smelt, and tasted. He didn't know what to make of it; perhaps it was his first pleasant experience, and it would linger with him throughout his lifetime. Something nice after a period of all things horrid. He couldn't remember ever getting this way over someone, even before he'd come here. Touching that man's body had left his palms warm and hot, and his stomach to flutter with something other than anxiety. He could still smell that man on his bed–the combined mixture of his scents left Richie feeling almost giddy in a sense.

He felt his face redden with a warm blush, and he hid his face against the supporting railing, crossing his arms over that same rail as he thought about last night. He was both glad and sad that he'd most likely never see the man, again. The redhead wasn't a local, and if he was...Richie would be happy to see him, again. Not in the drugged sense, of course, but fleeting glances here and there.

He wasn't sure what to feel, or expect now that he'd had this touch. Would there be others that would make him feel this way? Or was this a one time thing?

Richie wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with these feelings. Men weren't supposed to feel that way about other men. Especially this one. The redhead had been so angry to wake up, to realize that he was with a boy, not a girl.

And if he was a girl...? Would he enjoy this more? Dream about this redhead to come in and rescue him someday? Was it possible to think that way if he were a male?

But he sighed low and heavy, swinging his abused feet carelessly. The open air felt good on his blistered toes and heel, and he wiggled his toes indifferently. Shifting, he rested his cheek against the railing, opening his eyes to study his toes. His mother had always called him a little monkey–they were long, and he was able to pick things up with them. Thinking about his mother sent a large tear through his mid section. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of brutal feelings, wanting so much to be with her, again.

He wasn't sure how he was going to reach her; Junior had expressed that he send no letters back home, and if he absolutely had to, they were going to proof read it, first. Which further aided Richie's suspicion in that this was all some big set-up. If his parents had willingly sold him to this wretched existence, why the need to shelter them from his letters?

His stomach rumbled with some protest, needing something to eat, so he rose from his position, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. All the dust out in this area tended to irritate them. He wondered if Cook was there in the small, dirty kitchen that kicked out meals only for Alva's employees and the man himself. If he wasn't, then Richie figured he'd rummage through the cupboards for something to eat.

Junior had told him to accept only what Cook gave them, but Richie was going to ignore that. Going hungry just made everything horribly worse.

He left his boots off, and lumbered slowly through the hallway, listening for any approaching sounds. Everyone was asleep–he recognized Miranda's loud snoring from one of the rooms that he passed, and another girl was crying, not trying to muffle the sounds. He crossed his arms tightly, hating how his body felt so strange and foreign to him, lately. He didn't weigh that much before, but he had been losing some weight since he'd come out here. He could feel his bones pressing against his skin, aching in a way that reminded him of the growth spurts he'd had when he was younger.

Feeling a little chilled, he cautiously approached the curtain, and peered out, seeing that the bar was empty; all the tables were wiped clean, chairs uplifted onto them, legs pointed straight up. The floor was clean, swept, and the outside noises of the street gave the place a sort of calming feel. There wasn't anybody around, so Richie ventured out cautiously, taking the stairway stealthily, listening for anyone that maybe approaching. He then walked through the doorway by the bar and turned a sharp right, into a darker, smaller hallway. It was quiet–no banging of pots, no curses, no heavy shuffling that the Cook was known for...

He swallowed hard as he entered the kitchen, peering around cautiously, seeing a bag of flour being raided by some rats. He wrinkled his nose at the creatures that ignored him, and looked over at the icebox. Walking to that, he opened it to see that it held only a single leg of some animal he couldn't even place. Closing that, he turned to the various cupboards and began opening and closing them, throwing the rats a disgusted look each time. Their anxious squeals and hisses made him apprehensive, but he was used to them.

He turned his back to the door, venturing forward for the slender doorway of the pantry, and opened that to see various canned goods, dried packets of meat, and other mixtures of things that made his mouth water. It required a candle to look around, so he searched the kitchen for any that the Cook may have. He just grabbed a flint to lit a well worn stick of wax when he was caught from behind, hand settling over his mouth.

Of course, this made him intensely frightened, struggling as he was pulled into the pantry, darkness overtaking his sight as the door was shut. He was shoved quite fiercely into one of the shelves, making a rattle of sound as he connected, losing his balance as various cans, jars and packets of food rained down onto him. Amid the clatter of sound and jostle, the candle that he'd just found was lit, his attacker setting it down onto one of the shelves just so that the area was lit.

Richie quickly turned onto his backside, breathing heavily, intensely panicked at what was going to befell him, now. Once he realized he was staring up at the redhead from last night, of whom was looking at him fiercely, Richie felt his heart drop into his stomach. He'd wanted to see him again, but not in this manner. Not in this threatening and frightening way. He swallowed tightly, pushing backward until his back hit the wall.

"Please," he heard himself whimper, hands rising shakily. "I had to do it. I had to!"

"Where's my money?" the man growled, and despite his anxious fear, Richie felt a detestable twisting of unexplained heat in his gut. "I worked hard for that fuckin' money, an' to have it stolen by somethin' sick as you–? I want my money, you little twat!"

"I–I don't have it! I had to give it to Junior! Everything that I have to take, I have to give it to him! Please, sir, please understand that I didn't want to do it–!"

"Bullshit–! All you whores are the same! All scheming, wily–!"

"I never want to do any of this! Those are misconceptions!"

"–traitorous pieces of -! All of you are willin' to lie an' scheme ta git what ya'll want!"

"No! Please, please listen to me! I don't have your money–Junior does."

"I know you got some of it hidin' away! I want my money back, or so help me–!"

"_I don't have your money_!"

Once he realized that he was going to be struck, Richie cringed instinctively, covering his face with a startled squeak. Instead, his right wrist was snagged, and he was forced onto his knees as the redhead crouched before him. He couldn't stop shaking, waiting for more pain and physical torture; but at the same time, he just wanted to see those green eyes, again. Seconds passed before he realized he wasn't going to be hit–bewilderment struck him, then, and he slowly opened his eyes, keeping his cringing position, feeling that big hand's heat and strength around his wrist.

Blinking away a panicked filled haze, he saw that the man was staring at him, taking in his features with a sort of assessment that made him warm, inside. He couldn't help himself from looking into those green eyes, finding them just as enigmatic as they were last night. They were foggy and drunken, last night–now, they were narrowed with suspicion, darker in color. He wished he could see them in brighter light; see what true green they were.

He then found himself blushing slightly under the scrutiny, feeling awkward and uneasy as his features were searched. So anxious and scared was he that he couldn't get himself to stop shaking. He wanted to believe that this man was going to be kinder than the others had been; mostly because he felt things for him that he hadn't, before. To have that small dream broken would just be another form of torment.

"How old are ya, kid?" he heard him ask, and forced himself to swallow, lifting his head a little. He couldn't rightly explain the small, heated warmth in his chest at hearing that voice spoken to him so gently. It made his cheeks warmer than before. "Twelve? Thirteen?"

"I am not," Richie said, with a trace of indignant reproach, forcing himself to look at him. He struggled not to look away, but being so close to him; being able to touch and smell him, made him a little weird inside. Everything seemed to take a step back whenever he looked into those eyes.

"You don't sound like yer from around here."

"No...I...I was sent out here to teach...But Alva, he–he apparently had other plans."

For a few moments, he was studied again with an intense scrutiny, then he was shoved away–but this was done with considerably less violence than before, Richie catching himself before hitting anything.

"_You_? Came out here to _teach_? On yer own? HAH! That's a lie!"

"No, sir, please–! My parents were poor, but they'd sacrificed everything to ensure that I had an education! I had wanted to help educate those that were in need of it out here! In hopes that–!"

"Aw, geez, listen to ya! Like a preacher! Workin' them slick words just fer somethin' even slicker!"

"Please...I am not lying...I speak the truth...I never even thought to imagine an awful fate like this! To do all these things that I never even thought _possible_–! I was never to imagine myself working as a–a–whore. I never imagined that my body would be used against my will in such ways."

Richie heard his voice cracking, and all the dreadful feelings that he'd fought to repress suddenly started surging toward the surface. He had to wipe at his eyes, continuing pathetically with, "I'd never even been struck, before, and ever since I've arrived, I've been beaten almost every day. Why do human beings have to be cruel to each other?"

"Oh don't even–! HAH!"

He looked up in startled surprise when the older man started to laugh at him. He had to blink repeatedly, feeling a couple of tears escape. He wiped them away quickly, then frowned at him in puzzled reaction.

"All you broads are just the same–! Oh, boo-hoo, my daddy sold me off, lookit me now! Whorin' an' cryin' cuz it's all so hard. Wah, wah, WAH! I don't care about what you had to go through since you got here! Like I said before, allah you are liars and manipulators! Ya'll are _paid_ to make a man happy, an' to git yer way, you'd do what yer doin' now. Hah! Well, I ain't fallin' for it. An' I want my fuckin' money, you little shrimp!"

Richie stared up at him in silence, feeling a part of him die a little as he realized that his story wasn't believed. He had the thought that if he'd ever told anyone else of his past, they would believe him. But this man proved that theory wrong. He realized now that they'd only look at him for his status, and believe that every truth he made, was actually a lie to draw in sympathy. That he was only looking for more money.

If this one wouldn't believe him–who would?

That was a harsh shock, and he lowered his head as he heard the man continue on with his demands, his threats. That numb feeling he'd had to repress these feelings with were coming back. He wasn't ever going to see his parents, again. He wasn't going to have the sort of life that was expected of men; he wasn't going to teach, nor marry, nor have children, nor have a normal life. He was going to be on his stomach, swallowing and spitting man fluids, taking money and more beatings, and living in a place that was certainly Hell itself.

What had he done to deserve this sort of torture? Had he always been good to his parents? Hadn't he always helped out when they'd needed it? Hadn't he devoted every bit of himself to them in the way that they'd desired? _What had he done_?

Hotstreak stood there quietly, staring down at his lowered face. He kept searching for any indication that the kid was playing with him, just using theatrics to get his way, but there wasn't any. That pale, sickly face held a sort of accepting expression in defeat.

He started to doubt himself, now. He wanted to believe that the boy was telling him the truth. He couldn't imagine what had to be done in his place; didn't even want to.

Before he could even move to ask or say anything else, the scuff of boot against floor made him start. Looking over, he saw Junior and his cronies pulling into the kitchen, and looking at him in startled surprise.

"Th' _fuck_?" the younger Alva cursed, marching over as his cronies followed hastily.

_Shit_, Hotstreak thought, looking back at the boy that didn't even register the newcomers. It looked as if he were lost in his own thoughts, or resolution. Before he could do anything, Junior reached out to shove him. The smaller man just ended up slapping him angrily on the chest, a little annoyed that Hotstreak was taller than him.

"The hell you doin' in here?" he snarled, looking past him.

Hotstreak edged out of the pantry, noting calmly that he was taller than those present. As expected, they backed away, but felt safer in numbers. The moment he left the pantry, one of those men marched into the pantry, hollering up a storm of obscenities.

He watched, with a sense of helpless irritation, as the boy was dragged out of the pantry. Junior screamed something about breaking the rules, about getting tired of punishing him for every little thing that he knowingly did wrong.

A little bewildered, Hotstreak watched them cart the boy out of the kitchen, roughly shoving their way toward the main hall. He began to follow until Junior grabbed his arm, his fingers surprisingly strong for his size and frame.

"If you think, for one second, that you can keep him, yer dead wrong," he snarled. "Daddy paid for that one good an' square, an' he be gettin' debts paid off with his work! Don't you even think of trying to steal him!"

Hotstreak was flabbergasted in such a thing was suggested. "What the –? I didn't even think of no such thing! Ain't no business of mine, I was just lookin' for the money he stole from me!"

"He don't steal no money. He earns it, rightly. You gave it to him, last night, for service. You don't be threatenin' none of my whores for your stupidity!"

Hotstreak stared at him in silence, then abruptly shoved him. Junior stumbled and tripped over his own feet, slamming back first into the black stove. Hotstreak left the kitchen, following the chaos that had left him, hearing Junior scream absurd threats after him.

Down the hall was an open doorway, bright afternoon light filtering in onto the hallway. He marched out there, to see the boy shoved against a lone post that was erected within the space of the courtyard. One of the men was preparing to throw a bucket of water onto him; another was brandishing a horse whip. His own back shivered and rippled at the scene, unable to imagine that sort of pain.

With a sense of dumbstruck horror, he watched as the man holding the whip start to hit him. The sharp crack of the connection the thin leather made with wet material and human skin made him jump slightly. The boy didn't cry out; just clung tighter to the post with both arms, taking the next hit, and the next.

Junior caught up to him by the time he did start to cry out with thin, hoarse shouts of pain.

"You get offa this property, or I'll have the sheriff in on you like a rat on a carcass!" he howled, making himself look threatening, and succeeding only with a pathetic display of bravado. A couple of men were venturing in to see what was going on, and were rushing to join Junior as he faced off with Hotstreak. Another snap and crack of the whip, another anguished cry of pain, and Hotstreak looked over with a dull sense of understanding. Junior grabbed his chin, then, stretching to do so, and Hotstreak reacted by shoving him away.

"Git off this property, asshole! You ain't allowed up here, no mo'!" Junior screamed, the other men drawing their guns. "You come back here, an' I promise, I'll have yer fuckin' head! You leave my whores alone! They belong to me, an' to my daddy! Is that understood?"

Hotstreak gave another glance in the direction of the boy, then turned, to hurry away from the courtyard, Junior shouting after him.

After the cowboy had left, Junior huffed impatiently, turning to see his property start to slump against the post. He signaled for Trapper to stop, then stomped over, heaving furiously. His face was reddened with the scene he'd made earlier with the other man, and his own furiousness. When was this boy ever going to accept things? He was tired of having to punish him for every little crime he committed–he didn't care for him, just hated the trouble of having to do the punishing every time. It was irritating and took out much of his personal time.

His fingers slipped through limp, golden blond hair, and he yanked back so fiercely that Richie lost his balance and fell back first into the damp dirt.

"You don't be gettin' nothin' for the next few days, you arrogant lil' brat!" he cursed, spittle flying. "No food, no nothin'! An' I'mah send you the most _hurtful_ men I can fuckin' find. What you think you're doin', hidin' away with some man? Thinkin' he gonna take you away from here? None of the girls are allowed boyfriends, an' _you_ ain't the exception! The next time I find you outside your room, the very _next_ time I find you with a man outside your workin' hours, and the NEXT time I be finding you in the food cupboard when it ain't permitted, I'm going to work you over somethin' _fierce_! What the _FUCK_ do I haveta do around here to make you lissen?"

Angrily, Junior shoved his head away, looking at the curious faces of those that were watching the scene with fascination. He settled on Jerry, who looked a little annoyed, and marched up to him. Quickly, before the man could move, Junior had his pistol out of its holster and was whipping him across the face with the butt.

The larger man crumpled to the ground without pause.

"You're supposed to be watchin' him," he hissed. He straightened, then looked around at the others. "Get him back in his room. Make sure he cleans up. Casey...I want you to round up some of your friends. The meanest ones you can find. The kind that won't hesitate to be mean. I want this brat punished for his constant fuck ups. Is that understood?"

"Don't have to pistol whip me," Casey muttered, walking off sheepishly.

Junior exhaled heavily, hands on his hips. "Damn. Got the hardest job there is, out here. Keepin' stupid folk in line..."

**010101010110**

Outside the town's limits, just past ten at night, they walked. Literally thousands of them aimed for the brightly glowing lights of the town Alva owned. None of them made any sounds–their disfigured animals were as quiet as the night.

The only thing that truly gave away their arrival was the silence of nocturnal creatures.


	5. The Murder of Hundreds

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**Chapter Four:  
>The Murder of Hundreds<strong>

Hotstreak was smoking a cheroot, staring out at the town–night had fallen, and he and the others were going to prepare for the long trek back to the Hawkins' Ranch.

But his mind was focused on the boy he'd encountered–he just couldn't get him out of his head. His mind was just stuck on seeing the pretty boy, wanting to know more about him. Wanting to see him, again. He felt bad for being responsible for his beating–it made him flinch to think about it. Hearing those sharp cracks and hearing his pain-filled screams; it bothered him to know that it happened regularly, according to the man that worked the correl. How could they just hear those screams and go on with their lives?

Exhaling heavily, he took the cheroot out of his mouth, studying it. He heard the horses, tied nearby, give a few restless snorts and neighs, and he looked at them, watching as his horse stamped the dirt, tossing his head. Hotstreak glanced around, looking for some brat that was bothering them, or for any dangerous, threatening animals. The town was pretty active, through; he doubted any wolves, bears or mountain lions would come in this far. The place was crawling with humans.

He sighed, flicking his eyes in the direction of Alva's saloon, hearing the bright, cheerful music, the swell of laughter and shouts–the place was brightly lit. He wondered if the boy was working, now. Moving along with that hesitant gait, his shoulders hunched–Hotstreak had to wonder what possessed his buyers to pay for that bundle of insecurity? How could they prey on someone that didn't want it?

Yes, the boy was pretty–he wouldn't deny that, now. He did have a soft way about him, the sort of behavior that told him he was out of his league, here. That he was lost, misguided–how could anybody like him choose to work that profession...? Unless he was forced to.

Hotstreak had to wonder if that was the case, and tried to search his memory in that he'd seen this boy, before. The boy was awfully young–sixteen, he recalled. If he lived around here, Hotstreak was sure that he'd notice him–he came into town very rarely, but he often saw many people, and caught up on his gossip from the women that he visited, especially from Maria. But then again, the idea of a male whore was still new–those that talked about it were speaking in tones of fascination, utter disgust and a sort of pity that a male would lower himself for that profession.

Leaning against the porch support, Hotstreak wondered what had happened between them. He really couldn't recall anything after sitting at the bar, and waking up to the man pounding at the door. It was a complete black-out. But it made his cheeks burn with some embarrassment as he wondered how he 'performed'.

It wasn't a running joke, with him, on his 'stamina and endurance'. He had trouble staying up, and shooting too early.

That's why it burned him whenever people laughed and joked about that sort of thing. Here he was, all rugged and manly, intimidating to others, and he couldn't even hold his load long enough to satisfy a woman. It was enough to make him feel wholly shamed, embarrassed–mortified, he lowered his hat, as if people knew what he was thinking about.

But then again...the boy hadn't said anything. Hadn't teased him, nor giving him a knowing look. Quite frankly, Hotstreak figured he was quite happy that the redhead hadn't lasted long.

Still, he considered to stay flushed as he struggled to pull himself out of those wretched thoughts.

A couple of people meandering on the streets caught his attention–they walked with a sort of drunken sway, their heads lowered, as if they hadn't an idea of where they were going or what they were doing.

He felt a chill race up his spine, then frowned as he watched them. He noted that their clothes were dirty–in some areas, torn.

That's when the hairs on the back of his neck and arms rose, and he straightened away from the post. His breath came in short, tight clips, eyes widening as he stared at them–movement in his peripheral vision told him there were more people coming in–all of them were just as jerky as the ones he was seeing. They were coming in from the north, beyond the correl, coming in from the darkness beyond town. That's what was making the animals restless.

The cheroot fell to the worn wooden planks of the sidewalk, and he backed away from the street, feeling absolutely horrified as he watched more and more people, along with animals in the same condition, start to pull in from the darkness.

"S-shit!" he uttered, his voice thick with fear and apprehension. Virgil heard him swear, and came out curiously, settling his chaps around his thighs. "Oh, fuck no, this ain't happenin'! Not here!"

"_What_?" Virgil asked, staring at the sight of people and animal. "Wow. Where they all comin' from? Man, must've been a tough trip. We got us an exodus goin' on, here?"

Frantic, Hotstreak was pulling at his hat, anxiously moving away from the street. Once his back hit the wall, though, he was jolted out of his panic. He grabbed Virgil, shaking him roughly, much to the man's consternation.

"Get your shit–! Get your shit, let's get out of here! _Now_!"

"What's goin' on? What got your panties all in a twist?" Virgil asked, managing to shove away from him, a startled expression on his face.

Hotstreak ignored him, racing into the boardinghouse, shouting at the other Hawkins' hands to hurry up–that they had to go. Once done, he grabbed his pack, every movement frantic, his breath coming in tight gasps. Virgil was still standing where he left him, staring at him as if he'd grown a second head.

Hotstreak grabbed his bandanna, snarling, "Those people right there? They're _dead_, Virgil. And they're _mean_ when you try to fight back."

Pushing away from him, he was making his way to his horse, Virgil blinking in clueless factor as he turned, watching him move, then looking at the crowd of people. He realized, as the other hands joined them with some confusion, that there was more.

Then the screams started.

**010101010110**

Richie stared with a sense of numb detachment at the floor. His back was intensely sore, stinging with new and open wounds, but he couldn't reach back to tend to them, himself. He kept thinking about the cowboy, hating that he was starting to let go of his hopes for escape. The more he thought of escape, the more he thought of the ways Junior punished him. The more he thought of making it back home, the more he began to wonder if his parents would accept him after what had been done.

He was starting to dread the moment Casey and his friends would come tromping into his room. He didn't want another group scene–he didn't want to face another punishment. But he kept second guessing his escape choices. Thinking of the consequences after he was caught.

Closing his eyes, he drew in a trembling breath. He had to seriously weigh his options: stay here and allow several men to gang bang him, or try for escape.

Richie thought of the cowboy; unable to completely drive him from his mind. He felt miserable in that he wouldn't see him, again; but a little warm in remembering his voice, of being so close to him. He closed his eyes, recalling the way the man had held his wrist so firmly; he could hurt him, he was very sure of it–but he felt that the man was capable of so much more.

He sighed quietly, rising from his bed, to rub anxiously at his arms. He'd scrapped another shirt that fell ruin to yet another lashing; it had been the last of his clothes that his mother had gotten for him. He looked over at the three shirts that Teresa had paid for, and frowned as he wondered which one he should wear–if he should even bother. The men taking him wouldn't care what he was wearing, as long as it granted them easy access to his body. He looked over at the door, hearing the faint sounds of screams. They were distinct, and nothing like a whore's screams, nor those of men brawling. But real screams, screams of fear and utter fright. Adding to the noises were those of animals–squealing and shrieking in pure, unbridled fear.

He didn't know what to think–the music in the parlor below stopped abruptly, and he heard many men go silent. At the hasty tromping of boots on wood, of people clamoring to move from one end of the saloon to the other, he found himself moving toward the window, clearing it as best as he could to look out.

It looked as if the trickle of people that normally wandered the streets were moving into a very obvious flow. More and more were coming in from the north–pouring into the town as if they were all migrating from somewhere.

The odd thing was...everyone seemed drunk. It was as if none had any real direction, as if they were walking...only to keep up with the others. They weren't interested in looking around them–and the animals that were moving along with them were behaving in the same manner. But he needed his glasses–something was very wrong with those animals. They didn't look...complete.

Curiosity had him tilting his head, and he watched the scores of humans move through the worn roads, scattering in random directions. More screams began to sound, and he realized he recognized one of the women as those belonging to the saloon. A slow trickle of terror had him pressing his face against the glass, watching as doors throughout the area were forced open by these wandering people. That gunshots, frantic and wild, were now sounding throughout the entire area.

Starting to truly feel scared, he moved to the door, pulling at the knob–but it was locked tight. Moving back to the window, he stared out–he saw three of those moving people descend upon a man drunkenly moving through the streets. At first he thought they were hassling him–but the man began to scream, that high pitched sound of panic and human agony. He didn't see what it was that was making that man scream that way.

Massive terror was starting to stretch throughout the area, and the wild clamor down below turned into a massive confusion of people running, shouting–of guns firing simultaneously. He didn't register the shouts–screams of scared humans alarmed at things that were disturbing.

Whichever, Richie panicked in that he couldn't get out of the room. The stairs were being ascended, the wood creaking under weight–and there were people moving through the hall outside his room, and women were screaming–he had a right to be scared. He hadn't an idea what was going on. What had people screaming and running?

His door was tried, and there came the sound of pounding upon the wood. Whirling, he saw that people were looking into his room–that's when he began looking for his glasses. Something about those faces weren't looking right...

He frantically took out his valuable pair from underneath the floorboard, no matter who was watching him. The wood protested its treatment as the banging grew–shoving his glasses onto his face, he looked back at the window, and found himself stilling with complete and utter disbelief.  
>Some of them were missing their eyes–some had their jaws hanging loosely from their skulls; skin stretched and ripped in layers around their faces–these people weren't alive.<p>

The door continued to protest as the banging grew louder–the window creaked as various hands pressed upon it.

He couldn't escape–! Though some course of superhuman effort, he looked away from the window, looking down at the floorboard. Something came to him, then, and in desperation, he began picking at the other floorboards around that empty space. Charged with adrenaline, wanting to get away from that ghastly scene, he began tearing up the planks easily–tossing them aside, widening the hole. Dust was flying as the walls were pounded upon, as screams, shouts, and the obvious noises of people trying to run in every direction at once from the horror that had fallen upon them clouded the air.

Richie had fitted himself in that hole, kicking fiercely at the next set of floorboards, the ceiling that covered the kitchen below, when the door broke. Glancing up, panting with his efforts, Richie saw a group of people stumble into his room, falling onto the floor in a clutter of haphazard clumsiness. The stench was overwhelming–these corpses had rotted in the sun.

He screamed in pure terror as he saw sightless eyes turn toward him, as bones clattered as they fell to the floor, as bodies started to move in reanimation, moving when they shouldn't. The floorboards gave away, and he didn't have the time to gather breath to scream again as he fell from the ceiling and landed into the kitchen below. He hit hard on his bottom, giving a pained squeak as he rested there for a moment–but the chaos was still continuing.

It made his heart race upon hearing the fear and the agony in those screams–a woman was shrieking non stop, and when it suddenly stopped, abruptly choked, that sent waves of nausea throughout his body. He ran out from the kitchen, not bothering to look around him–just raced out into the hall, and out into the courtyard. There were more people here, all of them those that were not dead–they were merely walking about, aimless.

He was careful to avoid them, breathing heavily as he started toward the street, at the same time trying to avoid Junior and his cronies. Successfully, he maneuvered past and through the walking crowd of undead, hearing horses squeal and panic, hearing more gunshots and screams. The street was in utter chaos–people were being taken down to the dirt by small groups of dead, and it seemed that once a person was taken down, those undead swarmed them all.

Horses were running with their riders dangling lifelessly against their backs, and the moment the animals bumped into the walking undead, they, too, were brought down by growing swarms of people. One horse, dragging its rider along behind it, hooves kicking it with every movement, slammed into a group of walking dead. Hands, various people–they simply struck out, grabbing a hold of moving legs, onto the horse's mane, tail–as the animal bucked and jumped, trying to continue moving, more people swarmed it.

Before Richie's shocked eyes, that group brought the animal down. He was utterly stunned to watch as a man leant forward, into the animal's bulging stomach, and began to bite. The very fact that this human was biting the animal, others following suit as the animal squealed and screamed, struggling to rise again, made Richie very still. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even as blood began to spurt into the air with crazy color, as the horse's eyes seemed to widen with utter terror. Several more people fell onto the animal, one of them charging for its thick throat.

Hearing the animal's squeals of death and destruction had Richie panicking, moving. Cleverly realizing that he was fine if he kept from touching the undead, he strained to avoid contact with the walking, looking for a way to hide–or at least get out of town.

A few riders were clamoring in from the darkness, their high pitched wails and screams overtaking all that was occurring here. Pausing, mostly out of fright, Richie watched them enter town. Their steeds were horses, deer, elk–anything that could carry the frightening riders in black. The odd thing was, those animals were missing a great majority of their hides, muscle–in some areas, their bones caught the gleam of the moon above. Innards were trailing over the dirt–he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Those riders plowed through anyone in their path, swinging what looked to be rifles and machetes around. Undead, panicked living–anything in their path was either mowed down by their rides, or taken down by their weapons. Richie noticed that if the undead were bumped, they tried to swarm those vicious riders with the same intent they had going on with the stampeding living. One of those riders grew close, sweeping his machete from side to side–knocking off heads, sending blood flying, his steed panting heavily as it stormed through the crowd.

The rider's long jacket flapped behind him, and he was covered in head-to-toe in a funny sort of material–something slick, but heavy enough to emit a particular stench that touched him even above all the other smells. The rider's eyes were barely visible beneath its hat, but they glowed an eerie red–and it was missing all its facial features. To Richie, it seemed as if it were a skeleton dressed in outrageous clothing.

But it had more mind than the zombies–spotting him, the rider gave a loud shriek that sent most of the undead bowing forward, their hands moving toward their ears; eerily, while the sound was distracting, it wasn't enough for Richie to feel pain at the volume. It affected mostly the undead. The rider shifted the horse's path, mowing down fleeing whores and a couple of drunken cowboys that spilled out from Alva's saloon.

Realizing that it was heading for him, cackling madly, Richie turned and began running, careful to avoid touching the walking undead. The horse emitted a barking shriek, mowing down everything in its path as its rider cackled with glee, swinging that machete around.

Not really thinking, Richie ducked into a side shop, slamming into a couple of people that were standing there. Gasping, panicked that they were the dead, he threw himself off from them, scrambled backwards, and headed back out. By this time, the rider had swept past, knocking the head off an undead miner as he reached out for its mount. More riders of the same style were tearing through the street, moving in the same manner through the crowds.  
>The animals that were moving about varied in appearance–there were dogs, cats, deer, raccoons; even birds. They flitted through the air, strangely losing their feathers, falling into violent descents when they were no longer able to keep themselves up there. The animals weren't attacking unless provoked in the same manner as the undead–it was strange to see a deer gnawing down on a screaming whore, somebody he didn't recognize.<p>

He bumped into a couple of people, and poured on the speed once he realized who he'd bumped. He wasn't sure where he was going, where he was going to find safety. He heard the enraged roars of those men that were after him, their jaws dangling in haphazard fashion, their arms outstretched.

More blasts from rapid gunfire had several undead falling before him. He just barely avoided touching them as his pursuers switched motive, attacking those on the dirt. Amid the wretched growls, squealing and sounds of flesh being torn from bone, he raced on.

A rider rode by, Richie feeling the swift cut in air as a rifle butt missed him by scant inches. The inhuman thing cackled in delight as it turned its mount, chasing after him. The mount, a full grown deer with a massive spread of antlers, snorted as its thin legs and small hooves pounded the dirt underneath, carelessly running over fallen people in its path.

Looking over his shoulder, Richie saw the rider catching up, the deer lowering his antlers, charging at him. He wasn't going to make it–! He swept to the side, tripping over a mewling kitten, slamming into the dirt as the rifle butt and antlers missed him once more. The kitten, however, reared on him angrily, screeching as it dug its small claws into his boot, teeth gnashing into his jeans. Richie gave a startled sound, kicking both feet, managing to kick the dead thing off of him–enraging it even more.

Not even bothering to feel as ridiculous as he looked, trying to escape a deranged kitten, Richie shot to his feet and began running once more–only that rider had enough time to turn, in the process of charging at him with that same wild cackle.

Richie wasn't sure what he was hit with–by that rifle butt, or that deer's massive antlers–but he was sent flying back into the street, slamming into a small crowd of people that were in the midst of tearing apart a drunken sodbuster. Chaos descended, and he fought wildly for his life, screaming in fear the entire time as hands clamped down onto his arms, as ruined faces peered at him.

The sodbuster, missing half his face, propelled only by his drunken rage, managed to throw them all off of him, blasting his revolver in wild abandon. Richie was tossed a couple of feet away, those undead losing their grip. As startled horror told him he was free, he was up and running again, zigzagging through the chaos, hearing screams, shouts, cries and the unholy sounds of bodies being torn apart.

Several houses were in flame–the heat cut through the cool air, filled the night with building smoke. Glass shattered as windows were broken–small explosions caused by temporary oil containers broke through the screaming monotony. Wood was torn apart in mad frenzy, buildings being torn, literally, at the seams.  
>Animals screamed, people cried–the streets were filled with chaos.<p>

He didn't know where to go–everywhere he turned, there was either a rider or a swarm of undead milling around. He lost track of the panicked living–he just wanted to get out, but it seemed that more and more undead were tracking into town, cutting off all available escape routes.

He found himself lurching into the doorway of an open shop, the neighboring shack next door bright with flames. The wall nearest it was starting to blacken, smoking, and he coughed violently, trying to figure out an escape route as smoke filled the shack. A woman was racing by, naked, breasts flopping about as several undead charged after her.

A dog was mauling a frightened horse, its rider trying frantically to get it off his steed.

There were kids of undetermined nationality running by, their frantic mother holding onto their hands, crying as she tried directing them through the chaos.

He clutched the doorway, gasping for breath, coughing as the smoke grew worse. A rider shot by, one of those children in his arms. He didn't want to know what was going to happen to her, squeezing his eyes shut as the child's frantic screams merged with the chaos in the street.

Finally, driven out by the heat and smoke, Richie shot back out into the street, spying a clearing through an alleyway–beyond that, there was nothing. He shot for that route, hearing the exclaiming cackle of a rider. Panting heavily, he ran as fast as he could through the alley, hearing the thin walls echo with the animal's hooves pounding against the dirt. He shot out through the alley, seeing that he was in the clear–that straight ahead of him was the welcoming timberline that flowed directly into the 'hostile' mountains.

Looking back behind him, he saw the rider, riding a fast moving gelding, hold up what looked to be a cleaver–it was aiming to throw it at him. Richie kept running, throwing terrified glances at the rider with almost every step. The rider flung the dangerous item at him, and luck had him tripping at that particular instant, over something in the dirt. The cleaver landed inches from his sprawled form, then rolled in the dust.

The rider shifted its horse's path, and intended to mow him down that way. Richie knew he wasn't fast enough to escape that, and could only watch in horror as the horse gained precious inches toward him, nostrils flaring with each hard pant.

A shot gun blast had the rider flying off its ride, the animal screeching with surprise, wheeling away from the current path it was taking. The rider, dressed in similar clothing as the first Richie had seen, hit the dirt in a spectacular show of dirt and flapping black. The animal kicked and bucked, angrily charging the group of riders that were riding toward it.

Richie picked himself up from the ground, and chose to continue running for the timberline, too distressed to see if those riders were friend or foe.

The demonic rider blasted from his horse gave a wild cackle, facing the group of men that were coming its way–its arms were outstretched, skeletal hands out wide, eyes glowing a bright red. As they neared, it was withdrawing a sleek, handsome shotgun from a hidden position behind it. This gun was wide barreled, long–the butt shaped and carved from what looked to be the edge of a sword. It caught the gleam of the moon as it brandished the weapon, firing once into the group.

A horse squealed, a rider shouting in agony as he fell from his ride, and more blasts of the gun rang out. The rider caught the spray of pellets, knocked backward, but it continued to stand, brandishing its weapon once more with another cackle of glee.

A blast from another gun sent the rider's head flying from its shoulders. The body flopped lifelessly onto the ground, gun falling from its curled hand.

Richie, meanwhile, found himself wrenched from the ground, giving an awkward, protesting shout as the rider of a pale white horse caught up to him, holding him in place. He was then shoved towards another horse, this one a pretty Palomino, the rider easy to recognize as he jerked him from the dirt and maneuvered behind him. Without thinking too much, Richie held tightly onto the waist of Alva Junior, who was screaming orders at his group of cronies–some of which held the other whores from the saloon. The elder Alva was busy reloading his weapon, screaming orders for one of the men to grab that rider's weapon.

It was ridiculous to think that the older Alva and the younger one were trying to rescue their moneymakers in the chaos the undead were causing.

Either way, he was rescued.


	6. In The Silence, I Wander

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**Chapter Five:  
>In The Silence, I Wander<strong>

Hotstreak had just finished telling Virgil and Adam about the train robbery–something that had happened eight years ago.

"It was fucked up," he admitted over the sound of their horses' hooves hitting the dirt. In the darkness, they had the comfort of the nocturnal animals as they made their sounds. If they turned, they could easily see Alva's town burning. The faint screams of panic were still audible at their distance–ringing off the cliff walls and mountains that enveloped them. They were trying not to look back; all of them were a little numb, save for Hotstreak–he felt too much.

Too dangerous to ride fast through the dark, they were walking their mounts along the trail they used to drive their cattle into town. Virgil and the others were finally learning the secrets of Hotstreak's past–the guy was still a little freaked as he fiddled with the reins, with his hat, with anything; Charger himself was more than restless, but worked rather easily with his master, as if sensing now wasn't the time to challenge and play.

"So," Virgil trailed off, blinking as a particularly loud blast sent waves throughout the cliff walls, making a few pebbles tinkle onto the earth. He struggled not to look–he would see things he wouldn't want to. "You guys were responsible for unleashing all Hell upon the good West? I'm sure ya'll must've felt so damn _bad_..."

Hotstreak shot him a disgusted look. "Shut up, Hawkins. Who knew that the first train job I get, _that_ happens?"

"Well...discouraged you from a life of crime, eh?"

"Actually...no. I ended up doing a few more things before finally ending up here," Hotstreak admitted, frowning as Charger stumbled over some unseen dip in the trail. "Just that... I didn't think it would...this was still goin'. I didn't think it'd all follow me, here."

"So, what happened when you guys headed back to town?" Adam asked curiously.

"...that's when it all got even _more_ messed up..."

**010101010110**

Blayne slowed his pace, sniffing the air. It was at that moment that both Francis and Aron realized what that stench was in the air.

It was the unforgettable stench of human flesh, burning. The smoke that filled the air, carelessly drifting over the bright sun, was light–signaling that whatever fire was burning, it was nearly out, with no fuel to keep it going. The humidity of the area had seemed to allow the stench weight-it was quite detectable no matter which direction they were looking, or smelling. It clung to every molecule, it seemed-the buzzing of thousands of hidden insects were just quiet enough for them to hear the faint sounds of chaos. Used to the clinging humidity, the boys wiped their faces with the casual movement, trying not to breathe so hard, to take in that stench.

Hurrying along, the three boys ran up the rest of the rocky incline, stumbling over loose gravel, and peered over the edge.

Their town, the place they'd grown up in, was destroyed. The wooden houses, the corrals, the barns, the farms that were spread throughout the valley–most of it was gone. In horror, all three stared at the devastation. In the correl just down the hill, there was an animal of undetermined nature, running and screaming in agonized circles as fire continued to eat at it.

Amidst the screaming of the animal, there were faint shouts further into Floriston–there were men on horseback, all of them surrounding _something_; but their panicked action and repeated gun blasts told the boys that something was wrong, there.

The fields, the crops were untouched–but the structures were destroyed.

There were human bodies, old and young, littering the streets, alley ways, and porches of the buildings closest to them. Some of them were burned corpses–others were destroyed messes of missing limbs, gore covered torsos, and congealing blood. The stench was horrendous, touching them in their distance, and Aron leant over, vomiting acrid liquid.

Blayne's skin had turned a sickly, ashy color, while Francis blinked every so often. There was a woman screaming as she ran across the correl, where the burning animal ran–there were a group of men chasing her. Their actions were clumsy, almost drunken–but their mouths were open, and words of undetermined nature were coming from them.

"Gwaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrggggghhhh!" was a common one, one of them grunting in a sort of dog-like bark. The woman was obviously in shock–her dress covered with blood, her bodice torn.

None of the boys could move, watching as she stumbled, watching as the men swarmed onto her. Her screams rose louder and louder–high pitched, devastating shrieks that sounded watery at the end. Material flew–an arm flew. Before it even registered, there was a gurgling sound that she emitted last, followed by a spectacular geyser of blood–the men covered her with their bodies, shifting hastily–until the boys realized that they were tearing at her with their teeth and fingers.  
>Aron vomited again.<p>

"What is goin' on?" Blayne whispered, as if those men would hear him. Francis only shook his head, eyes not leaving the sight of the cannibalism that was occurring just a small distance from them. Aron's eyes were large and watery, his nose dripping with snot–there were sounds of garbled distress coming from his open mouth; as if he were trying to speak, but the words continually died at the tip of his tongue.

The rail line nearby clacked and cluttered–as if another train were coming through, but it was just a boxcar that swept along the tracks–unaided. The top was smoking dark black plumes, and flames licked the air through the small windows. There was a continuous dinging sound coming from it, as if someone were continually pulling on the bell.

Something exploded, and Blayne numbly announced that it had been old man Frankston's oil supply, to keep his shop in light after the sun went down. The announcing plume of smoke lifted into the air, and it was only a matter of time before flames began licking onto the roofs nearby, spreading quickly as timber was consumed.

They continued to stare, unmoving, until Aron gave a choking sob, clamping both hands over his mouth. Both Blayne and Francis felt the same way, terrified and alone, but felt it too risky to start bawling like Aron. Blayne swallowed tightly, looking at his partner with a scared expression. His dark skin was still ashy.

"We goin' down there?" he whispered.

Francis considered it, his eyes moving back to where the burning animal ran, where the men were finishing the woman off. Innards lay in the broken dirt, and two of the men were currently scrapping with each other over something that looked suspiciously like part of a rib cage. His stomach lurched, and his throat spewed bile onto his tongue.

He turned, spatting into the rocks below their feet. Blayne watched, expressionless, as those men began tearing each other apart. There were birds in the sky–crows. Cawing loudly as their black feathers fluttered through the air, beaks opened wide with their shouts. That flaming animal finally hit the dirt with an audible exhale, burning–the stench was horrendous.

"Dunno. Should we?" he asked, looking at Blayne.

Blayne shrugged, his fingers digging into the dirt. The three continued to stare down at the scene in shock–silent.

This morning they'd had woken, excited and nervous, expecting to rob a train and return with cash they could use for personal things. Now...they were coming back home, to find all that they had ever known, destroyed by things they didn't understand.

It was nearly night fall when the three boys, clustered close together and creeping through the burned ruins of their town, examined fallen Floriston. Devastation was everywhere–the bodies had birds alighting them, and thin, wild dogs were already pouncing on the fallen meat of humans. Glass windows had been shattered–none of them had survived whatever it was that had swept through the town.

The buildings that hadn't been burned had their doors hanging off their hinges–gardens were ruined, ransacked. Scorch marks from gun blasts littered almost every standing surface–rounds were visible in the dirt. An occasional horse swept through, eyes wide with panic, saddle in place, missing their rider–they all seemed to dart away from the humans once they caught sight of the boys.

Floriston had been a bustle of activity–a mixture of cowboys, of sodbusters, travelers, settlers–all sorts of souls that had wanted to pass through the Louisiana territory and into the West. The rail line ran right through the center of town–the population had been nearly a thousand–quite grand for a settlement like this. But whatever wasn't on fire, whatever wasn't torn, whatever wasn't littered with gore and devastation–was empty and silent.

The silence of the town was what scared the boys, most. The fact that all the people they had seen and known all their lives were now either lying in pieces on the ground at their feet, or missing.

Aron was struggling to keep himself composed as Blayne led the way, his nervous eyes shooting here and there, Francis close behind him, rubbing anxiously at his forearms. The tromping sound of their boots along the packed dirt rang off of still-standing structures–a rabbit darted quickly through the road, hitting the bodies of downed humans, and scurrying anxiously into an open garden.

There were faint shouts further ahead of them–and the moment they saw some people racing, sluggishly, through the streets, the three of them were ducking behind any available cover. As the group neared the trio, Blayne peeked over the small garden fence, catching sight of their ghastly appearances. Their clothes were torn, skin was gray–they were the walking undead, just like those passengers in the train.

He recognized two of them–they had been buried nearly two months ago, just outside of Floriston. The sheriff had ruled them a suicide, due to their crops failing last year. The immigrant husband and wife had half their heads and faces missing–they walked with the uncertain action of a drunken man, undecided in where he was going; their footsteps were careful, as if they were treading on ice.

He watched them sweep by, giving those odd sounds, none of them in connection. The woman would "Urrrrghhhhh", the man would "Keeeeeeekkkkkkkeeeeeeee", the others would add in their various guttural noises. It wasn't as if they were speaking to each other–just uttering them at the surprise of hearing themselves. Quickly, he looked over at Francis, who was hiding behind a haphazard hanging door up some church steps, and Aron had crammed himself underneath the porch of a woman's dress shop.

The moment the undead scurried by, Blayne was signaling at them to get moving–to join him. The other two did so, fear on their faces, and the moment they were reunited, Blayne was leading the trek out of the streets, heading for the back end of the closely grouped structures. From there, they moved through a winding trail of hiding from various people, to arguing quietly in where they wanted to go.

Blayne wanted to hit his father's farm, just outside of Floriston. Francis wanted to go home to the boardinghouse he lived with his parents, and Aron wanted to see if his family, a widower with a new wife and stepbrother. It didn't seem right to break up right then–but they all wanted to go in different directions, to reassure themselves that all that they knew personally was still there. It was hard to think that anything of theirs was still standing–everything was in ruins. Everything was different than from what they'd left it.

They went to Francis' boardinghouse, only to find that it, along with several other shacks along the street, were burnt–the supporting ties were still burning, and there were visible human corpses everywhere. Blayne merely clapped a hand on his back in sympathy, squeezing his shoulder to let him know that they had to get moving. Numbly, Francis followed them, casting glances back at the smoldering mess, wondering if his parents had died–if some of those corpses littering the ashy ruins were them.

Aron's place was next–the moment they reached the small, still standing structure, the blond left them. He raced up the porch and into the house, immediately tripping over his stepbrother's body in the process. Dwayne's face was permanently etched with a deathly fear, congealing blood pooled around his body–his death had been an axe carved deep into his back. Just a distance away, his father sat on the couch, his head blown off, his brains and skull matter decorating the back wall. There was no sign of his mother–intensely disturbed, not bothering to look for her, Aron walked back out. Silent.

From that day on, he never spoke again. It seemed as if he'd just given up–as if his mind shut down with all the easiness it took to blow out a candle.

By the time they'd reached Blayne's house, night had fallen, and Floriston was silent. Fires kept the valley alight, showing off the settlement's destruction to the billions of stars that shone overhead. There were a few ducks waddling here and there, and chickens raced about in frantic effort–disturbed by the three that were walking up the tended path.

Blayne hurried up the front porch and walked in. Too fearful of drawing attention from the wandering dead in town, he didn't call out. Merely searched room from room for those that he knew.

But...in the end...all three boys had only each other. Sleep was out of reach from them, as they took turns trying to rest and standing guard. Blayne had discovered that his father had left behind some ammo and a single-shot hunting rifle that constantly jammed. They used that, passing it to the person on watch while the other two slept.

There was still some food in the pantry, and that next day found the three of them at the table, staring at what they'd been able to pick out. Aron wasn't acknowledging anybody, and both Blayne and Francis spoke only when they had to.

Picking at pieces of dried venison, Blayne looked at Francis, then looked worriedly at Aron, who stared at his food sightlessly. Shaking.

"What we gonna do?" he asked, keeping his voice low. The constant chatter of the chicken and ducks outside was something normal for them–it kept them from completely losing themselves to the sudden silence. There hadn't been any trains passing through since the one they'd tried to rob yesterday.

Francis shrugged. "I dunno. Mebbe hit the next town? We can walk. Or find a few horses. Still some runnin' around, out there."

"What we gonna do when we get there, an' it looks like this one?" Blayne asked, his voice a little shaky. "I don't think I can take seein' anymore of this, man. It's freaky."

"...Do you think we caused it all?" Francis asked him, darting worried green eyes in his direction, then focusing at the open window. Staring out into the distance. "That...that we...like, let something go? That thing, it said cuz we all upset it–it was gonna do somethin' nasty. Do...do you think we did it?"

Blayne shrugged. "I dunno. We couldn't, have. I mean...we was just followin' orders! We didn't even have any ammo to do things! How could have we started it all?"

"I'm scared, man," Francis admitted. "What's gonna happen if we run into them? Do we, like, try to run away? Or kill them?"

"...Just see what has to be done, I guess." Blayne ran a hand over his tightly braided hair. "I don't think those things can be kilt. I mean...they're dead already!"

"Yeah...but...they can't be like..._completely_ powerful. They already fallin' apart...maybe it just needs some coaxing. We can get, like weapons. Your daddy's axe, his farm tools–_things_. Even if we don't have any guns."

"We'd need mounts. I don't think we can keep on doing this on foot," Blayne said, matter-of-factly. "Let's do that. I'll go get the weapons–you and Aron pack whatever we need to take wit' us. That cool?"

"Yeah." Francis flicked an anxious glance at Aron, who didn't register any of them. "What if he stays like that, man?"

Blayne studied their blond friend. He shrugged helplessly.

By that afternoon, strapped with weapons that they could carry, the boys head back toward town, intent on catching a few of those horses that were running about. Things seemed to have died down, a little. There weren't very many men or women lingering about. Everything was completely silent. As the sun continued to burn, and the humidity continued to keep them drenched, the bodies lying in their places were starting to disappear, leaving behind a mass of inner organs, bones, material of shredded clothing and congealed blood. It was both eerie and panicking to know that the bodies they'd seen a day earlier were just getting up and leaving.

They managed to catch a couple of horses, and it was agreed that Aron was better off behind one of them. Steadying a particularly skittish stallion, part of its right outer thigh bloodied by what looked like bite marks, Francis glanced at his two friends as they trotted along behind him, on a somewhat calm mare. They were going to head out of Floriston and head towards another town, a day's worth of riding north of here. They were all tired–exhausted. Not wanting to talk very much.

As he led the way, he glanced around here and there, staring in particular at the burnt area where his home had been. He hadn't been that close to his family–his father was often gone, working on the ever lengthening rail line, his younger sister was married off to a sodbuster looking to work his settlement somewhere up north, and his mother was a dressmaker–his parents were in an arranged marriage, didn't talk to each other much, and he was often the troublemaker, making it hard for them to cope and manage.

He came home whenever he wanted, said what he wanted, and did what he wanted–this train robbery was going to be his ticket to a life of crime; he felt he would work well in that aspect. He had thought it would be neat to hold people up and take their valuables. He was good with a gun, and he was quite large for his age. He had been so excited to meet with the group of men that had coaxed him into their plans–now...he wasn't sure what to feel.

They were nearing the train station, aiming to take the main road out of Floriston when he realized he was looking at the train they were to rob yesterday. It was parked in the station–cold and unmoving. Usually, there were people milling around the station–the engine was always running. There was always steam coming from the smoke stack, and there were always operators running around it, making sure that things were in place and working well.

But everything was so _still_–so still and so eerie in that it was all abandoned. He pulled his horse to a stop, gesturing at it to Blayne.

The immigrant looked over, studying the station, then the train. He looked back at Francis with a shrug, not knowing what to make of the situation. Francis turned his horse to start walking when he pulled up short with a gasp, Blayne uttering the same noise.

It was the man from the train that was standing there, hands folded before him. Not making a sound, his head lowered–the wide brim of his hat kept his face covered.

"Afternoon, boys," he greeted in that creepy voice of his, penetrating the deep silence.

His bandanna was missing–the missing contents of his neck was exposed, and Blayne had to wonder how it was that he was able to speak. Those cracked lips spread into a smile, and the face lifted–those eyes focused on them, but they were flat–unseeing, like a blind person's. Which made the two wonder if he were able to see at all–that glow wasn't there. "Where are you off to, this fine, warm afternoon? You look as if you are on a trip out of town...do your parents know where you are?"

Neither could find his voice to say anything, Francis backing his horse so that they were side by side with Blayne. Aron showed no registration of the man at all–clinging to Blayne's waist with shaking arms. Francis found he was able to pull his borrowed shotgun, the one that always jammed, and aimed it at the man.

"You stop this!" he cried. "Look at what you did!"

"'What _I_ did'? _I_ didn't do anything! _You_ provoked my partner–_he_ decided that this should be so! If you stupid thieves hadn't bothered with climbing aboard our train–which is privately owned, I must inform you–he wouldn't have made the decision to do what he had! He was angered by your choice! How dare you come aboard his train, and ruin his trip with your silly intentions!"

In mounting frustration, in that this man was speaking in riddles, Blayne shouted angrily, "Who is this 'he' yer talkin' about?"

"My master, of course," the man chuckled, his black hair lifting with a sudden afternoon breeze. "Someone that has been in control of me since I stumbled upon him. We go back a long way, you know...I hope you all feel special, boys. You started this entire chaos of darkness."

"We didn't do anythin'!" Francis insisted, his horse taking on agitated movements, startled by his teenage voice. "We was just lookin' for our future! It ain't like–it ain't like we _kilt_ anybody, or anything!"

"No...you just pissed off the wrong person," the man said gravely, frowning darkly at them. "Hell of a time to try and shift the blame."

"We didn't do anythin'!" Blayne cried this time. "_We_ didn't do this! We didn't ask for this!"

"Aw...the sound of children, feeling bad for the crimes they'd committed...almost musical. Almost... makes me _tear_. If only I had tear ducts, that is. I seem to be missing a great majority of my body–that happens when you live as long as I do."

Shaking his head, looking anxious, Francis looked back at Blayne. His eyes darted toward the open road, and Blayne understood with a solid nod. Aron held tighter, even though he wasn't looking at anybody.

Francis looked down at the man, sneering as his skittish horse pranced, snorting wildly. Head tossing–nostrils flaring–the guttural sounds of those undead catching their ears. Blayne looked back to see the street was filling with them–as if called from some unseen person. The corpses in the street were rising, and words of undetermined nature were coming from their mouths. Sightless eyes were directed toward them, and their shuffling gait caused dust to rise.

"What's your name, man?" he asked.

The man grinned, his lips on the verge of cracking as he did so. "Caine. That's all I remember. Shall I be seeing you again, young one?"

"Don't count on it. I'll just pass the word on."

"Please don't expect too much of the next town," Caine muttered, walking away from the two skittish animals, their riders holding on tight. "Or the next...or the _next_. I'll admit, the West is rather large, and places are spread too thin. It'll take a while before we catch up to you, again. But don't count on us looking up your new address–as far as he is concerned...you're nothing to worry about. Just lost children...opening Pandora's box and unleashing a curse upon the world. You know how it goes..."

With an uncertain look at Caine, who was walking through the moving undead, Blayne coaxed his horse forward. Francis followed, the trio riding off through town–heading for the next.

**010101010110**

"That guy was right, too. Nothin' was left of any town we came to. Our horses 'bout died, from bein' ridden too much without rest. We was just lookin' for a place that wasn't all invaded by those things." Hotstreak thought more of his past with a grim frown, thinking of their journey.

Virgil, having listened quietly the entire time, stared with a troubled expression at Sparky's mane. They'd left Alva's town too quickly for him to see the undead wrought their havoc. He hadn't seen any of the horrors Hotstreak had described. But the sounds that he heard were enough to convince him that it was all so frightful.

"What happened to those guys?" he asked curiously.

Hotstreak shrugged a shoulder. "Coupla days later, Aron blew his brains out with the rifle. Damn thing never did work again. But Blayne and I...well, we got to learnin'. Experimentin'. Y'know, we just did our thing while looking for a way out of that place. We saw our share of shit–he went on to do good, that way. Turned into some sorta badass zombie-killer; that's what he called them. _Zombies_. Got all...like, heroish–wanted to find Caine and this 'he' he kept mentionin', and...we sorta parted ways."

Virgil studied him. "What happened to _you_?"

Hotstreak sighed heavily. "I chickened out. Learned my lot, learned what to do with those things–an', trust me, it ain't just zombies an' things on horseback. I kinda went crazy. I didn't care to go the way Blayne had. I didn't want to look for that bullshit. I just wanted..._out_. Found and made my second train–kilt my first person. From there, I just hopped from town to town–no one knew what was happening. Word didn't reach nobody what was goin'on, an' it was like...we were the only survivors. An' whose gonna believe us? Couple kids, talking shit about undead? _No one_.

"Blayne went on to being a hero, I went an' did whatever it took to get drunk . 'S how I ended up stumbling onto your daddy. You know the rest from there."

Virgil nodded quietly, and the group rode in silence for some considerable time. By the time the sky began to lighten up, they were halfway close to Hawkins' Ranch. They decided that it was considerable distance to rest, and they did.

**010101010110**

They stared at the rising plume of smoke, visible in the distance. Almost simultaneously, jaws dropped–hearts seemed to stop. Virgil didn't hesitate, thoughts of his father and sister jumping to mind as he kicked Sparky into a dead run toward the ranch. The others followed, and Hotstreak was left behind–gaping at the visible trail of destruction. While he inwardly knew what they were going to see, he didn't want to see it. He didn't want that horror, again.

Slower, but definitely keeping Charger at a run, he followed after the others.


	7. The Silence In Timbers

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**Chapter Six:  
>The Silence in Timbers<strong>

Their animals were dead. Bodies were cast everywhere–it was as if someone had come through, randomly killed off any animal that was in their path, making a mess out of their demise. The structures were burnt, a few support beams smoldering here and there. The gardens were ruined–bodies of the other ranch hands lay everywhere.

In a state of shock, Virgil leapt off Sparky, moving into a run as he shot toward the smoldering house. He screamed Sharon's name, alternating between his father and older sister as the others shot into view. Adam was doing the same, shouting for his wife, his voice full of panic and heavy anxiety.

Though they recognized that the dead had been there for hours–indicated by the heavy congealing of blood around them, the heavy bloating caused by the heat, the fact that whatever position they were in, blood had dripped from various areas of their bodies to settle closer to the ground–they still hoped _someone_ had survived.

The stench was growing thicker as the day warmed–there wasn't any hope at all for any survivors. Virgil slowed to a stop before the house, staring in agonized despair at the ashes and various things that hadn't been eradicated to piles of cold ash. It appeared that the house had been burning for awhile. The metal, porcelain–all of it was scorched black and gray. Melted around some edges.

The barn had burnt fastest, with its stock of straw, wood and other supplies. The carefully tended bales of hay that were stored underneath a cover shed were burnt as well–the areas around it were black, wisps of ashes settling further and further with the day's breeze. The ranch hands' quarters was completely gone, as well, save for various pieces of metal and steel.

Virgil fell to his knees, unsure of what to do in his grief. Adam kept looking throughout the area, hoping and hollering that somebody was still around. The animals–various horses, mules, cattle, dogs, chickens, ducks, turkeys–lay scattered throughout the area in their own blood and gore. Feathers of various assortment fluttered weakly throughout the dirt, sailing in the breeze. The other hands, too busy gaping to move, took up the small area that had been the house's front walkway.

Charger nickered quietly as he and Hotstreak entered the scene, the redhead staring sullenly at the destruction that had been wrought. Something deep and hot boiled up inside of him, upsetting his stomach and squeezing his chest. This had been his _home_–this is where he'd felt safe, welcome. To see it all gone...destroyed by the creatures he'd help unleash so many years ago, made him entirely and suddenly indifferent.

A coping mechanism that worked handily whenever bouts of trauma occurred. Despite his stunned state, he was already wondering how he was going to move on–where he was going to go, next. Who would take him in? It seemed that no matter where he went–_this_ followed. It looked as if he couldn't escape it.

He stared down at the bodies, and grew anxious. Leaving Charger, he pulled out his six-shooters, handling them nervously as he walked slowly toward the others–he'd learned, long ago, that bodies just didn't lie there to rot. They were up and moving at an unseen, silent prompt. He had to get the others out of there before they were killed, too. Adding to the army.

He walked over to Virgil, who was sitting on his knees, in stunned silence as he watched his house smolder. Adam's shouts for Sharon and Robert carried on in the distance–visible between the thin rows of trees that surrounded the living property. Hotstreak stared at the blackened mess, recognizing parts of the kitchen, the living room–trying not to look too hard at the couple of corpses that were merely unsettled skeletons. He didn't want to think that it was Sharon and Robert–thinking of the older man, he remembered how he favored his knees; arthritis bothered him from time to time, and he couldn't move very fast.

And Sharon...the woman would put up a fight, but...she was just _one_ woman against who-knew-how-many?

He looked over at Virgil, feeling guilty at the face that was full of despair and loss. He didn't know what to say–but having those dead bodies around made him anxious to leave. He looked back at the others, trying to find his voice to tell them to arm themselves. Their faces were full of the very same thing Virgil had.

Looking up, he saw Adam walking heavily in their direction–trying very hard not to weep. It was a hard loss, to lose everything to things that one couldn't understand; especially to zombies.

A glance at those bodies had Hotstreak shifting from one foot to the other. "Virgil," he said quietly, seeing the other man give a slight start at the sound of his voice. "Virgil...we haveta leave. Quick."

At first, he thought that Virgil hadn't heard him–he'd spoke too quietly. For Virgil continued to stare at the smoldering mess, his full lips open, his eyes sightless. Something in the distance shifted, and Hotstreak's pulse began to race.

"Virgil...Virgil we have to leave."

Finally, the younger man looked at him, blinking away that sightlessness. Understanding of his words touched him, and he simply stared up at Hotstreak in silence. Until his brow furrowed, and his expression turned into anger.

"_Why_?" he barked, his voice sending some birds into flight. "Where we gonna go? This is our fuckin' _home_!"

"Virgil," Hotstreak tried again, trying to keep his voice calm. More shifting had him looking over his shoulder–one of the bodies had moved. He swore it did. "Virgil, if they came through here, and they kilt these guys...they gonna be just as undead as the others."

Virgil looked over in the direction that he was looking, failing to understand. Unable to–grief and shock had him still and blank. He rose, shakily, Hotstreak moving to help him stand. Angrily, with growing helplessness and devastation, Virgil threw his arm off. He looked around once more, spying Adam, giving him a flicker of hope.

Adam shook his head sorrowfully, turning to stare at what used to be the back end of the house. There were wet trails down his cheeks, and he was continuously wiping at his eyes. It looked as if he were starting to accept that those he loved were dead.

Hotstreak looked back at the bodies, then at Virgil anxiously. "Let's go, man. There isn't anything here we can take wit' us. It's all gone."

"This was _my home_!" Virgil cried, his voice breaking. "_This was my home_! My father and my sister–! I can't just _leave_–!"

"I lost my home, too, Virgil! And my family! I know what it feels, like, man! I _know_! But those guys, they ain't gonna lay there for long–!"

"What are they going to do, _huh_? What they gonna do?" Virgil asked, on the verge of breaking down. He swept his hat aside furiously, spurs jangling noisily as he paced with agitation. "They gonna stand right up, an' come at us?"

Hotstreak blinked. "Well...yeah. Pretty much."

Virgil gave him a look of disgust, then looked away, staring at the smoldering house. He sat with a hard sigh, knees drawn up slightly so that he could rest his elbows atop of them. Staring at the ashes, he once more lost himself in his grief as Hotstreak shifted anxiously once more, looking around them. He looked over at Adam, realizing that he wasn't going to be much help. Looking at the other hands, he saw that they were looking just as down–none of them were bothering to heed his warnings.

He looked over at the bodies, frowning at them. Hating what he had to do to men he'd known for six years. Walking away from Virgil, who just vaguely turned his head to watch him go, Hotstreak headed for Charger. He unloaded the small pickaxe he'd packed, in case they'd need it on the trail, and then headed for the closest body. Grimly, he paused before the bloated mess, recognizing him as a tender hearted hand that was fond of birds and the horses.

Exhaling heavily, he brought the pickaxe over his head, and brought the curved end down at the nape of the man's neck with a loud and sickening crunch that had everyone else looking over at him. It was almost a clean sever–another should do. He repeated the action, Virgil clamoring to his feet and racing over as he threw another clean chop, completely severing the dead man's head from his body. He was about to hook the body with his pickaxe when Virgil reached him, shoving him viciously enough to send him sprawling in the dirt.

"_You outta yer mind_?" Virgil hissed, looking in horror at the dead man Hotstreak had just beheaded.

"Virg, look–! I had more experience with these things!" Hotstreak picked himself up from the dirt, brushing off his pants. "If'n we don't get rid of them now, they gonna get us. How would you like it if you found yourself starin' up at yer daddy, that's lookin' to kill ya? We gotta take off their heads, an' burn 'em before they get to us!"

"My daddy ain't gonna be no fuckin' _zombie_!' Virgil shrieked, on the verge of hysterics.

"How do you know?" Hotstreak asked, picking up the pickaxe. "_Huh_? You knowin' somethin' I don't? The least you can think is that yer daddy ain't gonna feel nothin'–he's just a mindless body, now. He already gone!"

"Don't you talk about him that way!" Virgil snarled, shoving at him again. Once he realized that shove wasn't enough, he pushed him again. Easily, Hotstreak swept him aside, and he hit the dirt in a muffled mess, kicking up dust and ashes.

"Stop it, Virgil. I don't wanna fight wit' you. But we gotta do this, man. Before they start movin'." Hooking the man with the curved point of his pickaxe, Hotstreak began dragging the body, sans head, towards the house. The others were staring at them in numbed disbelief, unsure if they were going to move–unsure of what to do.

Virgil picked himself up from the ground, tripping over the head. Sprawling again. Hotstreak glanced at him, pitying his grief stricken state, and went to work on the next body. The other hands avoided him as if he were going to turn on him, and Adam rose slowly, starting to come back to life, again. Staring at the ruined head–eye sockets swollen, eyeballs covered in dirt, blood pooled in weighty measurement against face skin, Virgil went still, eyes wide. When the maggots began falling from the clamped nostrils, he started to vomit.

Hotstreak looked over, noticing this. "Don't look at it, man," he said with exasperation, beheading another body. Then repeating the action with another, and another. The hands looked at each other, not knowing what to do.

Adam followed Hotstreak with his eyes, then something caught his peripheral vision. Feeling as if his head were being held in place, he jerked to look, shock numbing him intensely as he realized one of the bodies were starting to move. A twitch of the leg, a jerky flit of an arm–his mouth fell open, and he stared without saying anything, unsure of what he was seeing.

Hotstreak caught sight of the body, and abandoned his task with dragging the bodies toward the first. Quickly, before the body could move any further, he brought the pickaxe down against the top of the head, and swung outward. The resulting, watery mess made Adam's stomach jerk to his throat. Human skulls weren't supposed to do that–weren't supposed to make those sounds.

The body fell against the dirt, still once more. Panting, Hotstreak demolished the head–a friendly man that had taken his poker earnings many nights before–with several stabbing motions of the axe. Spreading skull matter, bits of hair and congealed blood all over. His boots were splattered with it by the time he was done.

Turning, he hooked that body with his pickaxe, dragging it quickly toward the others. "Light them up," he ordered, looking around the place for more. "Without their heads, they can't do anything! You gotta burn the bodies–they can't use 'em when they're all burnt."

Nobody moved, staring at him and those bodies in numbed horror. He realized this, and decided that he didn't have time to wait. Hurrying toward Charger, he took out a box of matches, and some documents that recorded his purchases in Alva's town earlier. Crumbling those, he hurried toward the mess of bodies, stuffing the paper in random order. Then, lighting them, he didn't bother to see if they would catch as he rushed off, looking for more bodies to destroy.

Sightlessly, Virgil watched the flames catch, scorching well-worn material of the dead's shirts, spreading from limb to limb–catching quickly on rotting corpses. One of their hands twitched, and a leg kicked out–but other than that, the fire burned intensely. As for the heads that were left behind, he jerked his own about, looking at them, feeling his stomach lurch. He had known them. He had known them all.

"Hhhhuuuuaaaahhhhhhhh..." came a low, guttural noise behind him. Adam was already on his feet, dark skin turning pale. The other hands moved, and it seemed as if that sound was more than prompting for those in shock to finally snap to reality. Virgil turned, looking over his shoulder, seeing Robert Hawkins walking up the path...drunkenly and stiffly walking toward them.

Quickly, he climbed to his feet, and moved to race over when Hotstreak, spying them, screamed at him to stop. Just hearing the bigger man's desperate scream stopped Virgil in his tracks. He didn't take his eyes off Robert, though. As he stood there, the larger man lumbering up the path toward them, he began to become aware of the sightless eyes–the matted thickness on the side of his head, how one elbow dangled uselessly from the knob. His feet were dragging, scuffing the dirt and gravel with each step. He walked extremely pigeon-toed, stumbling every little step.

Virgil wanted to believe that Robert was okay–that he was merely injured from a fall off his horse. It looked as if that were true–but how could that be when the man's brains were visible from the half moon at the back of his skull? He saw this when Robert turned, scanning the area, uttering those same guttural noises–his tone surprised in that he could actually do so. As he shifted about, it looked almost as if he were looking for the person making those noises–not understanding that he was doing it himself.

"P-pops?" Virgil asked, weakly, still staring. Hotstreak hurried over, having traded his pickaxe for a fire scorched cleaver that he'd found within the kitchen area of the house. Protectively, he stood before Virgil, hating what he was seeing, trying to tell himself the same thing he'd told the younger man earlier.

That this wasn't Robert–this was just a mindless body. But it was hard, looking into the face of a man that had given him a chance when nobody else was willing to. This man had loved his children in a way that he'd wanted, and Robert had been a tough hand, neither hurtful or commanding, just stern whenever Hotstreak proved his stubbornness in things. He'd grown fond of the older man–it was just such a damn shame that he would have to destroy it. Robert was no longer _Robert_–it was an _It_. _It_ was just a body of a man that he knew.

"Virgil...Virgil, your father's dead," he said quietly, watching Robert continue his approach. "That ain't your daddy, Virgil. That's one of _them_."

Virgil's shove came out of no where, and Hotstreak stumbled until he caught himself, righting himself quickly before he could hurt himself with the cleaver. "_That's my father_!" he screamed, pointing at Robert, as if no one could see or recognize him. "That's my father! That's _my_ daddy! _How can you say that_?"

"You know I'm right, man! You know it! You're just in shock, buddy, it happens. That ain't your daddy–it's them. It's one of them, and it's gonna hurt you if you let it!" Hotstreak shouted back, noting that Robert was now shuffling toward them, antagonized by their loud words. "You can't get near it! It'll kill ya if'n it gets a hold of ya!"

Virgil felt his throat tighten, and a sound of despair left his full lips as he looked back at Robert. Closer now, he realized that the man was missing his right ear–that half of his face was covered in telltale scorch marks from buckshot. Someone had shot his father–someone had deliberately shot his father. But how–? When–? Where–?

He suddenly realized that Hotstreak was approaching Robert, cleaver held tight in one hand. He realized what was going to happen, and started to race forward, screaming a negative at the man's actions. Adam was there, suddenly, wrapping his wiry arms around him and pulling him back.

"Virgil, stop it, stop it, you see that he ain't there!" Adam coaxed, holding tight, managing a Nelson as his younger brother-in-law struggled to get away. "That ain't Robert, V! That's one of them creatures, and you _know_ it!"

"_That's my __**father**_!" Virgil screamed again, watching with horror as Hotstreak reached out, grabbing Robert by the front of his shirt, forcefully swinging him around and down onto the dirt. It was as if Robert couldn't catch himself, landing face flat into the gravel. Virgil heard himself screaming nonsense as he sent both him and Adam onto the ground, struggling to reach his father as Hotstreak followed the throw, walking up behind the larger man, stepping over his back and rendering the cleaver. As Robert started to move, to pick himself up, he had the cleaver slicing through the nape of his neck–repeatedly until the head flopped and hit the dirt with a spray of thick gore and dust.

The body twitched before falling onto its side, then stopped moving.

Virgil stopped moving just as abruptly, staring sightlessly as Hotstreak exhaled heavily, stepping away from the job he'd just performed. The silence was thick...seemingly interminable.

**010101010110**

The fire he was watching was fueled by the bodies of the various men he'd grown up around. Friendly, hard-working men that worked long hours and gave cheery grins. It lit up the falling darkness, and it cast a stench like no other. Animals were being fed into the fire as well–bloated, heavy bodies that required two men, at times, to drag them from their death posts and into the carefully prepared bonfire.

Virgil was sitting in the middle of the correl–the only place free of rotten, bloated bodies. The other hands were working quietly, a couple weeping, dismembering their former comrades as per Hotstreak's instructions. Without a head...the body didn't work. A few scares had popped up here and there, bodies moving while their heads were still attached, but nothing serious. Animals had tried clamoring to their feet, but they were destroyed quickly before they could even straighten themselves.

Hotstreak knew what he was doing–which was good, Virgil realized, because no one else, did. They would have never thought of desecrating their comrades' bodies. Never thought of burning them. Never thought that they'd reanimate themselves in that way they had.

He was stuck in a heavily numbed state of disbelief and shock. Unable to move much–staring almost sightlessly. He couldn't bring himself to think, yet. Couldn't register that he should be afraid of the area, now. Should be questioning himself on whether or not more were going to attack. More would show up.

Hotstreak was running the show, and while he was wholly depressed and down, he knew what they had to do. It kept him going as he worked, numbly wondering how it was they had overtaken Hawkins' Dakota Ranch. It wasn't near town–a two days' ride from Alva's...and yet, it had been destroyed just as easily as the town.

They still hadn't found Sharon–Adam was starting to believe that one of the corpses in the ashes of the house was hers. He couldn't bring himself to think that she would turn out like Robert–mindless and dead. If she were...he wasn't sure what he'd do.

Hotstreak finally loaded the last body into the fire–the hands were standing silently nearby, staring into the burning waste. Someone was uttering a prayer, but he wasn't sure which. The stench was horrendous.

He looked for Virgil, finding him sitting by himself in the correl.

It took awhile, but he walked over, and joined him, sitting in a similar position next to him, watching the smoke fill the sky, and for the flames to roar. He wasn't sure what they were going to do, now. Wasn't sure where they could run–figuring that other towns were overran, as well.

For the first time in months, he wondered how Blayne was doing.

He looked at Virgil, who hadn't moved at all–his fingers were entwined, and his mouth was slack, but it was obvious he really wasn't all there. Unsure of what to say, he exhaled heavily and stared at the fire...wondering what happened to the amber-eyed boy. Wondering if he'd escaped, or was part of the undead.

**010101010110**

The hand on his shoulder jolted him awake. Inhaling sharply, Hotstreak blinked heavy eyelids, looking up to see Adam giving him a similar, exhausted expression.

"You hungry?" he asked on a heavy exhale. "We managed to get to the cellar door–some food was stocked in there."

Hotstreak sat up, kicking off the light blanket that had been laid over him. He didn't even remember falling asleep. Looking around, he realized it was morning–that bonfire was smoldering, smoke thin and wispy as it caught the morning breeze. He registered that everyone had camped around each other–packs were unloaded, horses were loose nearby. Virgil was no where in sight.

If it wasn't for the obvious destruction, and lack of animals and workers, it seemed like it always had; the trees were buzzing with insects, the sky was blue...the air was warm. But there was a heaviness to it all that reminded him instantly of what had happened.

"Where's V?" he asked, disregarding the instant potatoes and jerky that Adam held in one metal plate.

"Down at the creek." Adam shaded his eyes from the morning sun, staring in that direction. "Still in shock."

Hotstreak wanted to ask if they'd found Sharon yet, but held his tongue. He was once again thinking of that boy–hoping that he'd gotten away. Couldn't imagine him being one of _them_. The other hands were still lying around, or meandering through the area–looking at things.

Brushing at the crumbs at the corner of his eyes, Hotstreak rose, feeling stiff throughout every limb. He'd been clutching his pickaxe, and was surprised when it fell to the dirt.

"You okay?" he asked over his shoulder, at the man that stared quietly at the weapon.

"Yeah."

Hotstreak wasn't sure, but Adam was managing. He headed toward the creek, where he could see Virgil washing up at the stream. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say..._Sorry_? _Gee man, this sucks_?

By the time he had reached him, Virgil was just crouched there, letting water drip from his flattened dreads, his eyes staring off into the distance once more. Hotstreak carefully took a spot some distance behind him, crouching to examine the calluses on his hand.

He watched his friend–Virgil had been somewhat sheltered his entire life. He hadn't seen half of the things Hotstreak had; not counting the undead. He wasn't sure how Virgil was going to act, from now on. Aron had went brain dead, and never came out of it. Blayne had gone on to be a 'badass zombie killer'. He hoped that Virgil would somehow recognize that they were okay. That they needed him to continue.

"You okay, man?" he asked quietly, peeling the scab off of one wound. Getting sick at the sight of his own blood.

Virgil started, as if he hadn't heard him approach. Shifting, he turned to look down at him, his face expressionless for a few moments. It looked as if he hadn't slept at all, last night. Hotstreak squinted his eyes, staring up at him, waiting for an answer or reaction. For a few minutes, all that was heard was the birds in the trees, and the sounds of the bubbling creek. Someone's horse let out a whinny.

"So, what's gonna happen, man?" Virgil asked, in a slightly high pitched tone. His eyes went wide and rounded, and his expression seemed serious–only not. "You all zombie knowledge, here. You know _everything_. What's goin' to happen?"

Hotstreak sighed heavily–hysterical people never rubbed well with him. He lowered his head to examine the dirt under boot. "I don't know, Virg. I don't. I...I was kinda hopin' that you had an idea."

"There ain't no where else to go!" Virgil shouted, gesturing at the area.

"Hey, calm down, man. It's–you just need to keep your voice down," Hotstreak hissed, paranoid that _they_ were still around. All the hands were accounted, for, though. The numbers matched–only Sharon was missing.

"Why? Who's gonna be _hearing_ us?"

"Look...mebbe...mebbe we can find Kills. Maybe they gotta an idea, all right? Cuz...I'm seriously lost, here. I don't...I don't know where to go, I don't...know what to do. I'm not an expert, man. I just know how to kill them."

Virgil stared at him for a few moments, then looked away with an exasperated, '_Ch_!. "Useless," he muttered.

Hotstreak immediately took offense, straightening. "Look, _sorry_ Virgil, about your family! But there ain't nothing _I_ can do about it! I can't do anythin' about it! How were we supposed to know this was gonna happen?"

Virgil reared on him. "_You_ were involved! _You_ were there when they first started out! Why couldn't you have known they were comin' here!"

"Because I spent most of my life runnin' away from that, V! I didn't want to be involved–! I fucked up enough as it is, makin' that decision, an' what am I supposed to do about it? I hate what's been done, too! This felt like my family, too!"

"Oh, some family," Virgil scoffed. "You all let those things _kill_ your family!"

Seething, Hotstreak removed his hat, flutters of red catching the breeze. "I can't help what was done, Virgil, nor could I have known they were this way. I can't know all that–! I ain't psychic!"

Virgil looked away, but not before Hotstreak could see tears in his eyes. Feeling instantly remorseful, feeling helpless and guilty, for destroying his friend's life, he lowered his head, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry, man," he apologized. "I...I just didn't know this could happen. I didn't...I never wanted any harm comin' to this place. You gotta believe me! I loved this family, too, Virgil!"

Virgil looked at him, wiping his eyes with the back of his forearm, glaring at him accusingly. "Maybe they was after _you_, huh? Lookin' for you all this time? You say you from Orleans, they makin' their way up North, like you? What about that, huh? _What about that_? What if they _are_ looking for you?"

Hotstreak thought about it. He didn't think he could be of any importance to them. To...to Caine, and to 'him'. Whomever 'him' was. He'd jumped from town to town–perhaps they _were_ following. Perhaps that's why Hawkins' Ranch was targeted, because they had somehow known that he was here. This had him intensely flustered, sucking in a deep breath. He didn't want to believe it–he didn't want to be responsible for the murder of this family, too. This destruction–but perhaps they were looking for him.

This caused his chest to clench, hard–his breath to suddenly weigh heavily in his chest. He looked up, blinking repeatedly. He'd loved this family–he had loved this area. This had been _home_. To know that he was responsible for its destruction left him feeling weary and defeated, inside.

"M-mebbe," he uttered thickly, traces of that Southern drawl audible. Virgil looked at him, glaring at him with a sort of stubbornness he was known for. Feeling entirely awkward, Hotstreak started to move, unsure of what to do with his hands, with his feet.

"Where you goin'?" Virgil snapped, following after him. "You gonna run off, now? Find some other place so they could fuck it up, too?"

Hotstreak really wasn't sure. He was just numb from that disbelieving accusation. He couldn't even get his shoulders to shrug, even as he thought about it.

"You kill all us off, now you gonna lead them to kill everyone else?" Virgil asked, his voice rising as Hotstreak started to walk faster. Drawing attention from the others as they continued to mill around the open cellar. "_Huh_? Why don't you take some responsibility, in yer life? Go back to where you came from! You go back, an' you turn yerself in, so that this doesn't happen to everyone else!"

'_This_' was indicated with a wide flap of the arms, indicating the ranch. Hotstreak didn't look back, hurrying towards Charger. Calling him with a croaking voice that wanted to fade. The animal hurried over, sensing its master's mood and obeying every command.

And still Virgil followed, utterly furious at the loss of his life. Of the remaining members of his family. He wasn't thinking clearly–if he was, he wouldn't be doing this at all. But he followed Hotstreak, hounding him with accusations as Charger was saddled quickly, Adam hurrying over to see what was going on.

"You go back there, an' you atone for all this!" Virgil was screaming, now. "My family didn't have to die because of no-good people like you! Runnin' from everythin'! You go back there, an' you die for what you did! I don't ever wanna see you again!"

"Virgil–! _Virgil_!" Adam barked, reaching them, grabbing the younger man and pushing him aside. He watched as Hotstreak climbed atop of his saddle, looking just as shaken as Virgil was. "Where you goin', man?"

"Out. Away. I'm _sorry_. I didn't–! I didn't think this would ever happen–!"

"Yeah, you go'wan!" Virgil shouted, picking up some rocks. "You get out of here! Done enough damage, you get out of here! Murderer!"

"Virgil, stop! Don't go, Stone, you know he ain't in his right mind!" Adam pleaded, moving as Charger was turned. But he watched helplessly as Charger was coaxed into a hard run, Virgil running after them, flinging stones after them.

"_Murderer_!" Virgil screamed, the sound echoing off the valley walls.


	8. Blayne and Blood, Inc

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**Chapter Seven:  
>Blayne and Blood, Inc.<strong>

The town, by the time Charger and Hotstreak came back, was in the same sort of shambles that the ranch was. Bodies were strewn everywhere–most of the growing settlement had burnt to the ground. The stench of rotting bodies, bloated from the sun, wafted in with the afternoon breeze. Smoldering ruins continued to glow orange beneath blackened ashes. On the rail line nearby, there was a group of boxcars, missing most of their sides, and smoking, scorching the sky with black.

The horse had been growing steadily agitated as they neared the settlement, and it took a lot for Hotstreak to control him. Ears flattened, nostrils flaring, Charger put up a fight at first–but finally settled after a few minutes, sullenly walking forward with his head high, eyes wide and wild as the stench grew steadily stronger the closer they neared.

The silence was eerie.

It seemed as if Charger's hooves hitting the dirt was the only thing that broadcasted life. Staring warily around him, Hotstreak rode with a tired sort of appearance, not wanting to blink for an instant. It had been over two days...nearly four. More than enough time to have those bodies reanimated and looking to destroy. He was at a loss of what to do–he didn't want to go back to the ranch; guilt tore at him, making him wince, doubling over slightly.

He couldn't help but feel entirely responsible for the deaths of those that he'd learned to love and trust. Seeing Robert as part of the undead hurt–that man had been kind and caring, deserving respect for the work that he did, and for what he planned on accomplishing. He had worked hard to provide well for his two children–as a minority, he'd deserved that expansion of timber land and his ranch and cattle grounds. He had worked hard, honestly–kind to those that needed work or help with something that had brought them down.

Robert had given him a chance, and he'd worked hard to repay him.

Then...his past caught up to him. In _this_.

He pulled Charger to a stop, staring at the ruins before him. Turning right, he could head toward the corrals in the north end of town–near Alva's saloon. Toward the left, he could head into the south end, where the majority of settlers had taken residence. That was also the way towards friendly territory, into charted lands.

He found himself staring at the north end, trying to pick out Alva's saloon. He had a fleeting thought in that he should have stopped to make sure that boy had gotten away; maybe he wouldn't be alone, now. But he clamped his teeth, locking his back teeth hard. He hadn't even thought of that when he'd pushed Virgil and the others to move–he'd thought mainly of his own fear and anxiety; wanting to save himself, and spare himself the trouble of wading all over again through the mess of zombies.

He had to wonder if the boy had escaped–or if he'd find his body, lying among the others. A sort of intense curiosity gripped him, then. _He had to know_. He maneuvered Charger into that direction, apprehensively taking in the remnants of the town. There was something clanging in the distance–but he placed it as a window shutter hanging by its hinges, caught on the wind that had picked up, sweeping dust through the quiet streets.

There weren't even any animals salvaging about, like they normally would. As he passed one particular alley, he spied a dead rider and its ride, lying haphazardly over someone's overturned outhouse. He paused, considering the rider's jacket and hat–knowing full well the benefits of that alien skin.

**010101010110**

"It took seven shots to bring him down!" Blayne exclaimed, rather in amazement.

Both he and Francis were staring down at a fallen rider–the black teen had aimed correctly for the rider's face when they'd learned that their bullets bounced right off its coat and hat. The thin brim and tie looked worn, but comfortably new in that it didn't hold any shape to it–as if the skeleton hadn't fitted it onto its smooth, round head.

The rider had been harassing them ever since their arrival into their sixth town. But both boys had grown used to the chaotic, and oftentimes scary battle with the gruesome creatures. They'd merely taken their time, trying to figure out ways to take the thing out–trying to kill its ride (which had been a high-spirited gelding that was missing half of the left section of its head) hadn't proven very useful, until Blayne had figured out how to hack the bones of its legs to their advantage.

Once the ride had fallen, squealing with indignant reproach, Francis had put an end to its harassment by managing to get close enough to hack a well-used axe through the center of its skull, while Blayne charged in close to fire his newly discovered six-shooters at the rider.

Now, standing victoriously over the rider, both of them were taking in the thing's appearance; it was a skeleton, pure and simple. Riding and cackling evilly, it had seemed fleshy and rounded, thick and strong–but now, it was a gleaming heap of sunbleached bones with a bullet hole on the side of its head. It looked as if it had been wearing those clothes for years–but the material hadn't faded a bit.

Francis shifted nervously. "What you gonna do with it?"

Blayne had a concentrating expression on his face. "Take it's clothes," he decided, crouching and doing just that, while Francis gaped.

A few minutes later, Blayne set the thin brim hat over his head, adjusting it and fitting it to his shape. Francis was leaning on the axe, giving him a skeptic look. "That makes you look like yer wearin' some sorta potato sack, man," he complained. "It looks hot as hell."

"Kinda," Blayne admitted, picking at the sleeves. The material was nothing he'd ever felt, or seen, before. It gleamed lightly, smooth hairs so dense and thick that it almost resembled the back of an otter's pelt. It was shaped into a trench, and stitched handsomely with what looked to be some sort of animal gut. It was entirely fluid–fitting atop of his clothes and skin like that of a body hugging shirt. "It's light. Real light. An...I dunno."

Both of them admired it for a few moments, then Blayne received a glint in his eye. He turned toward Francis, who still wasn't sure of his friend's fashion sense. "Shoot me," he declared, hands akimbo.

"What? You gotta be trippin'," Francis scoffed, straightening. But then he realized Blayne was looking pretty serious. "You for _real_?"

"Yeah! I mean...when we were shootin' at him, he wasn't fazed, none! Shoot me! With these six-shooters."

Blayne hefted one of them from his hip and passed it over to him. Francis took the gun with a highly doubtful expression, not bothering to fit it in his hand–holding it by the barrel. Blayne turned his back to him, sweating nervously, hands clenched. But he was just determined to see what the jacket could do. He had seen those rounds bounce right off the hide!

"I ain't gonna do it, man," Francis said, shaking his head. "I ain't gonna! What if you...what if you _die_?"

"Then we know that it don't work," Blayne declared, frowning at him. "How we gonna know stuff if'n we don't try, Stone? How we gonna _know_? Just do it–shoot me where I might heal easily."

"Nah, I don't wanna. I mean...no. Yer outta yer mind, man! Sun got to ya, or yer turnin' like Aron!"

Blayne sighed in exasperation, snatching the gun from him. Not bothering to give himself pause, or think more of the action, he pointed the gun at himself and fired. Francis screamed, so startled by the action that he jumped back, axe hitting the dirt with a loud _boomf_!

But Blayne still stood. And the close-range shot had done nothing to the front of his coat.

Both boys stayed in sightless reaction until the slow _drip_!-_drip_!-_drip_! caught their attention. Yellow droplets dripped from the back of the front of the coat, dripping into the dirt. Swallowed with a light fluff of dust.

They grinned at each other, then laughed.

**010101010110**

Blayne had been riskier than him–watching those things closely, studying their weaknesses and noting their strengths. Using all that he'd gathered into fighting back. Both he and Francis were a team for awhile–both of them wearing the clothes of various riders, protected from just about anything with those magical hide pelts. They had no idea what sort of animal wore them until they ran into the same town Caine was using as a sort of headquarters...

But he didn't want to think about that, anymore.

He left Charger, trusting him to stay put as he walked over to the fallen rider. Seeing that it had been taken down between the eyes. _Good shot_, he thought vaguely, stripping the skeleton–bones cluttered to the dirt with hollow noise as he took the jacket and hat–tossing his own aside. He also loaded up on the weapons that it had left behind–those weapons that were half knives, half shotgun–and the ammo strapped around sunbleached hipbones. He strapped those around his own body, and kicked the dead animal as he walked back to Charger.

He let the big stallion sniff at the pelts–it made any horse nervous, sending them into fits of nervousness. Despite his challenging personality, Charger was still bothered by the alien scent. He tossed his head, wrenching the reins out of Hotstreak's hand and ran away.

"You fuckin' MUTT–!" he started to yell, then quieted. His voice had seemed to penetrate the silence with obscene decibel, and it made him tense. Charger merely neighed and flicked his tail before disappearing down a street.

By the time Hotstreak caught up to him, the stallion was nosing around the correl that it remembered. Quietly, Hotstreak stared up at the ruins of the saloon, staring at the room he knew the boy had used. The stairs were still there–half the building was still there. Including that room. Glancing around himself, he made sure Charger was occupied, and climbed the creaky stairway, fondly stroking the right arm of his jacket.

The material was light–but it adapted well against the cold and the heat, shifting temperature when appropriate. The shoulders were dotted with faint gray splotches, and the stitches were a dark green. It was finely crafted–just as fine as a fur coat, adaptable for men. Tough as leather, and strong as stone–they were also fireproof, and nearly weightless in water. Fine material, if one didn't try to consider what sort of animal possessed it. They were better off not knowing.

Once he reached the second floor, he found himself hesitating. The town was extremely silent, save for that banging window shutter–he could hear the wind whistling through various spaces throughout the street. Fire raged somewhere–he could still smell smoke. Not that of smoldering flames, but fire that had _fuel_. The sun faded for an instant, causing him to look up, seeing the huge plume of smoke that reached up to touch the bright blue sky. He squinted his eyes, wondering where it was coming from–he hadn't seen it earlier.

The wind caused the door, which had been open, to creak open, startling him. Jerking to a start, he looked over to see that room revealed to him. Quietly, he walked forward, cautiously walking in. There was a fine coat of dust everywhere he looked–there were a small pile of floorboards near the bed–pulled up, revealing a hole that led straight down to the kitchen below. He had to wonder if that was how the boy had escaped–felt some hope build in his chest. A strange feeling for a total but enigmatic stranger, and he had to question himself in why he felt so much for the boy.

One recall of those amber eyes had him looking away from the hole, looking around the room with silent wonder. The bed had been torn apart–those undead had been thorough in looking for prey. Once agitated, they just seemed to go wild, ripping apart anything in their path for blood. Shelves had been torn down–it was just a shack of a room, with barely enough space for a bed and those space holders, but–his eye caught sight of something just under the window. A black leather bag. Curiosity had him walking toward it, leaning down to pick it up. It was slightly heavy, and he winced as he dropped it. Crouching, he opened the top, revealing many leather bound books within. He couldn't read that well–only what he had to. But these were no interest of him, and he started to shove them aside.

Until he thought of the boy, wondering just how valuable those books were to him. Perhaps they were all his treasures; all he had for comfort while waiting for a customer to pay for him. Suddenly, they were valuable to Hotstreak, as well. But he couldn't take all of them. With a grim sort of frustration, oddly amused that he was going through such lengths, he began pulling them all out. Sorting through them, wondering what the value was on every one. Flipping through them, all of them looked the same.

With a broad-shouldered shrug, he set aside three of the thickest ones, and a slim red volume. He set the other books in a neat pile underneath the bed, and packed the four back into the leather bag. He left the room, exhaling heavily as he descended the stairway. Looking over at Charger, he noted that the stallion's ears were raised, and his face was pointed beyond the saloon–staring attentively at something that was surely out of place. Hurrying towards him, Hotstreak glanced over his shoulder, seeing that there was someone walking amongst the gore and destruction of the street.

Charger was agitated by the smell of his clothing, jerking his head back as Hotstreak tied the leather bag among those he had packed on his back. Speaking quietly to him, he stood next to him, soothing him with a hand on his neck. Charger examined the coat and hat once more, and snorted, obviously disliking both. His teeth snared the shoulder area, and shook slightly before releasing, snorting once more with a fair toss of his head.

While Hotstreak waited for him to somewhat approve enough so that he could mount him, he watched that person walk. From what he could see, they were short–almost child-like. Dressed in shiny material and having something funny with their hair. They were carefully moving through the masses of bodies, both animal and human alike, in the street. Occasionally dropping to rummage or pick something up. Apprehensive, Hotstreak realized that that sort of behavior wasn't zombie related. It was that of a scavenger, a man.

A survivor?

Unsure, he mounted Charger, intending to ride over to investigate–and paused once he recognized the familiar feel of a gun barrel against his temple. The sharp click of a bullet loaded into the chamber. The smell of gunpowder.

He blinked in startled surprise, wondering why Charger himself hadn't bothered with alerting him of this person's proximity. But one glance forward told him that the stallion was occupied with munching on sugar cubes propped atop one of the fenceposts.

"Traitor," he muttered, frowning glumly.

"_Bang_," came a cool, low voice, purred in a sort of way that had his neck tingling. Not in arousal–but in how _cool_ it was. His eyes darted to the side, and he was startled to see a black man perched atop of the correl, a rapid-fire, unrecognizable multi-round shotgun pointed right at his face. The design, the steel and cool lining had him earnestly astonished at the technology, distracted more by the gun than the man.

Who was dressed like him in a similar manner–wearing the pelt and hat of a fallen rider.

He forced himself to look at the man, who looked a little disappointed in that he was too slow to react to his arrival. Glumly, the gun was retracted.

"You ain't no fun, man," he muttered, in that same, cool voice. As if he were never ruffled.

He rose into a standing position, Hotstreak noticing that he was wearing more of that pelt all over–in a strange sort of coverall that covered all of his body, save the area around his shoulders and collarbone–that was covered with a bright white shirt, a couple of crosses hanging in upside-down manner from twine around his neck. His boots were a shiny leather Hotstreak hadn't seen, before. Melted like butter against his legs, ending in steel-toed points, the heels fashioned in a more rounder, broader way.

Strapped around his chest were ammunition he wasn't familiar with–at his hips were two wicked scythes that were used for cutting fields, but they were fashioned in a way that the rounded knobs of each handle had the face of skeletons on them. The handles were wrapped in twine, and the blades were tucked safely within molded leather. Over his jacket, strapped like a backpack, were twin rifles.

All he could do was gape–this man radiated _cool_.

"You live here?" the man asked him, frowning at him. It looked as if his face was permanently etched with a scowl–the hat hung low so that it cut across his brow, and there was something eerily familiar about his features that Hotstreak stared at him blankly, trying to picture this man in his memory.

The man grew tired of his dumb silence, and whapped the back of his head with one half-gloved hand. "You deaf, man? Can you talk? Speak-a da Engrish?"

"I–I–yeah, I speak English!" Hotstreak finally stuttered, straightening his hat as Charger gave a sound that almost disputed his claim. "Who the fuck are you?"

"None o' yo damn buziness," the man drawled, his accent very unfamiliar. He placed his hands on his hips and sneered down at him. They were both the same height–Hotstreak was sure of this. Almost the same size–save his own shoulders were broader, his chest bigger. But this man was a match for strength–he could tell. "We came too late for this place, eh? Just a train too...late...but it looked pretty shitty, anyway. Didn't look as if it'd last another year..."

Hotstreak didn't know what to say–looking away from him and scanning what remained of Alva's town. That person he'd spotted earlier had grown closer during the exchange–it was a man. A small, slender man wearing funny looking clothes. And...if his eyes weren't playing tricks with him...he had purple hair.

"Just another shithole that's prolly better off," the man muttered, rubbing his chin. Hotstreak could swear he'd seen that action before–he just couldn't think where! "Lotsa people died–prolly would burn this entire valley down to the ground if we set them all on fire."

He knew what to do–! Hotstreak was amazed, jerking his head into a nod. "Yeah...yeah, but there ain't nothin' around for miles. It might be okay."

The man looked down at him, then leapt off the fence in a motion that could only be described as fluid. His jacket barely moved, and all his equipment barely made a sound. Charger was startled to see the man walking past him, having never heard or sensed him do so. Hotstreak couldn't help but be awed by this man, who was walking toward the funny looking one. He pushed Charger forward.

"Where you from?" he asked, almost eagerly, admiring the cool saunter the man had. The way he moved as if he were all liquid.

"Don't remember."

"Well...how do you know how to get rid of all them?" Hotstreak pressed, keeping Charger alongside him.

"Man...we just _do_."

"Who's we?"

A chin jutted forward in the form of a point, gesturing at the other man. "Me. Shiv. And Kangorr. I go by Ebon. Sorta...we sorta just wanderers, man. That's all."

"Just _three_ of you?" Hotstreak exclaimed in amazement. "Dressed like _that_? Whatcha'll get to to look like that, like ya'll know what yer doin'?"

Ebon gave him a look of disgust. "Slow down, man. Chill. You in shock?"

"No. Just...I guess, kinda in awe. I had no idea other people knew what to do with this."

The man paused, then continued walking. "You know of zombies? You obviously know the Mad Men. 'S what we call them guys on horseback. Cuz they all _mad_. In da head..."

Before Hotstreak could explain how, what and why, the purple haired man was charging forward, giggling in a mad sort of way.

"Look at all this cash, man!" he exclaimed, his words thick with a foreign accent. His words were stunted–as if he were tripping over every one. A little high pitched, squeaky, like a teenager's, he spoke with animated features that were quite upbeat and friendly.

As he hurried closer, Hotstreak could see that this one was dressed funny–he hadn't seen this sort of dress, before.

He wore a shirt made out of silk, spotted with gold crests. It was held together by material-based toggles, and the sleeves, collar and waist band was all black fabric that was highlighted briefly with every moment he made. His pants were made of a sort of puffy material, gathered around his ankles–he wore white socks, and slippers that were made out of the same material as that of his shirt. He wore thin silver hoops at his earlobes–strapped over his back were a pair of thin, curved swords with light gold handles. Beautiful weapons–but incredibly distracting.

He had a cloth bag slung over one shoulder, made out of what looked to be bedsheets. In it was full of treasures he'd apparently picked from the dead. He showed the black man a handful of gold and nickel coins, giggling again as he tossed on a woman's bonnet to shield his features from the sun.

"What are you going to do with that?" Ebon asked, exasperated, swiping the pretty cotton bonnet off his head. "We don't need cash where we're going! We ain't needed that in a long ass time, you idiot!"

"Aw...but...still! What if we get lucky?"

One arm swept out, and a finger pointed angrily at the dirt. With a reluctant sigh, the coins fell from slender hands.

The Asian looked down for a moment, and seemed to notice Hotstreak for the first time. He leapt back instantly, with a sort of relieved expression on his face. "Wow! I thought you were Kangorr!"

"Shut up, man. Your English is so bad, he prolly had no idea what you just said."

"Ah–! I meant..._cool_!"

The black man sighed, and looked up at Hotstreak. "You the only survivor, man?"

Hotstreak thought about the ranch, and the others. He shrugged. "Basically. Been lookin' to get out of here, but...just thought I'd check the place out before I head out."

Ebon shook his head. "Ain't no where to go, man. Through this area, Caine and his crew have everything under their control. They spreading East ward, now. They got the entire Spanish territory under their hands–spread toward Mexico. Every one they come to, they kill."

The Asian, Shiv, shook his head excitedly. "_Every_one! No one lives!"

"No one. 'Cept in their army."

Hotstreak stared at them, feeling wholly empty all of a sudden. Unable to imagine that amount of control Caine and his 'master' had. The West had expanded with so many settlers and prospectors that it seemed impossibly to fathom–that it had been conquered.

"The Indians...?"

"Ain't no one safe from the zombies, man. _Even_ them! No guns, no nothin'–! What, they try to chase away Ghouls and Hounds with them bows an' arrows? They drop just as easily as these poor fools."

Hotstreak thought of the Indians he'd befriended through the years, licking his dry lips. He knew the creatures that Ebon spoke of, and recalled them with a distinct remembrance that had him shivering slightly.

"Ain't no one safe," the black man repeated, Shiv accentuated this with a rapid shake of his head.

"No one," he repeated in his stunted English.

Hotstreak thought of eight years ago–when he could have ended all this by killing Caine, and that mummified infant. The one that squealed and squeaked when it shouldn't have. But it wasn't something he could have done–he had been young...inexperienced. Stunned by the new arrival of zombies and otherworldly creatures.

A hand hit his thigh, and Shiv danced out of the way before Charger could bite him. Ebon gave Hotstreak a frown. Something about the black man made the stallion hesitate to take a chunk out of him. It was a little surprising in that Charger didn't try. Hotstreak jiggled the reins, as if that would tell him whether or not the stallion was okay.

"You okay? You sure you ain't in shock?" Ebon asked, having hit him.

"...Y-yeah. Just...thinking. About...about things." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, thinking of the many nights he'd gotten drunk just to block out the things he'd seen. "You say there was three of you?"

"Yeah. Me, Shiv and Kangorr."

"...What kinda name is that?" Hotstreak asked skeptically.

"Dunno. Just calls him by what he wanna be called." Ebon shrugged. "Ain't no business of mine what he wanna be named. What's yours, by the way?"

Hotstreak told them, and both men looked at him skeptically. "W-what's that for?" Shiv asked curiously, sounding out the name with clumsy lips.

The redhead flushed, ducking his head in a bashed manner. "Gotta temper on me. Guess I was named after that."

Ebon continued to give him a skeptic look, then finally gave a slow grin. "What's your _real_ name, man?"

"...Something stupid. I don't want to repeat it. But I ain't from here. From down Orleans...where all this shit started."

Both of them looked interested, exchanging looks of curiosity before Ebon faced him again. "Really? That's where Kangorr's, from. Got that same sorta drawl."

Something touched the back of his ear, and Hotstreak flicked at it. "Huh."

Ebon jerked, as if he just remembered something. He patted Shiv across the head with the palm of his head. "Got the matches, man? We gonna burn this entire town, down."

Amber eyes crossed his vision, and Hotstreak shook his head. "No. _Wait_. I–I don't live here. But I know someone that did. I...I came back to see if–if he'd lived."

"What's he look like?" Shiv asked lifting both eyebrows. He had such a funny looking face–his black eyes slanted in a foreign way, but wide enough to express a sort of mania that seemed unbecoming. Sort of cute, in a way.

Hotstreak thought of the boy, trying to recall everything. "Blond...hair right here. Kinda–kinda gangly. Not that tall."

Ebon scoffed, then shrugged. "Whatever. But Kangorr already burning the other side of town. We'll let you look down this street. Meet us back here when you're done."

Hotstreak looked at them, unsure whether to trust them, or not. He didn't know them–he didn't know their motives. But he just wanted to see if that boy had survived–or if he was one of those lying dead in the streets. Quickly, he nudged Charger forward, casting the two men a wary glance, but the Asian was talking with a sort of giggle, and Ebon looked amused.

Hotstreak swore he saw that man, before.

Everyone lay in various stages of death–flesh torn, bones broken, blood everywhere. Old, young, men and women...if they hadn't been taken down by zombies, they had been taken out by the animals that were part of it all. If it wasn't manual force, it was those weapons those riders used. Every body was gruesome, and it made his stomach turn.

He put his hand to his mouth, trying to control his body as Charger trotted with noticeable agitation through the streets of gore. He paused at a few bodies, but none of the slim blonds was the one he was looking for. Each one he came to, he felt that immense, welling dread in the pit of his stomach, until he caught sight of the unfamiliar strangers' faces. Still, even as he felt relieved that he hadn't come onto the boy just yet, his mind was still wondering if he'd even looked in the right places. Confusion had sent everyone into a panic–people had been running in and out of buildings, throughout the streets; trying to escape the horrors that were chasing them.

He could be _anywhere_.

Still, he had to hope that the boy had gotten away–if he was desperate enough to rip through the floor to escape, then he may have the right instincts in avoiding certain and gruesome death.

Smoke drifted his way, and he sought to ignore it, turning up another major dirt road, Charger chewing anxiously at his bit.

By then, the smoke had built too thick and the flames were spreading too quick for him to continue. But every body he came to wasn't the one that he was searching for. With a sort of relieved, empty feeling, he headed back through town and for the corrals. Then he had to pause once he came to an alley–catching sight of something that he hadn't even thought of seeing. So preoccupied with the death of Robert and the ranch, of the amber-eyed boy, he hadn't even thought of Maria and her brood.

There was a woman lying in the alley, stripped of her outer layer of skin. It looked as if dogs had gotten to her before anything else, but he had a faint chill up his spine in that he _knew_ canines weren't responsible for the gory mess.

The long, lush hair was brown and full–curled at the ends. Hotstreak didn't want to know if that was her–didn't want to think of what had happened to her children. No..._their_ children. The ones he never got to know.

Regret and intense guilt hit him, making him double once more. He had had _kids_–and hadn't bothered with them. Just dropped off an occasional surprise–he didn't even know what they sounded like. They'd been asleep every time he'd dropped by. He would leave before seeing them.

He'd had kids–and hadn't made the effort to get to know them.

Feeling entirely low, he headed away from the alley. Bodies were starting to reanimate–lifting from the ground with those guttural moans. Charger was skittish, but Hotstreak wasn't bothered. He was still able to maneuver around them with his mount. He pulled out a rifle from the case packed amongst those bags he had. Charger would have to get used to the creatures if they were going to encounter them more...

He started shooting, casually–as if he were target practicing. Charger was used to guns going off by his head, and started at the first shot–but grew somewhat comforted once the horse realized his master was shooting down the bodies that were rising to threaten them. Hotstreak lost himself in the action, numbly recalling that this zombie had been one of the bankers; that this one worked the postal service; that this one once hit on him the second time he'd come into town, years back. This one had only been five years old; this one had shit on his pants when Hotstreak had caught him out in the valley, beaver hunting. All these faces were familiar to him–he'd heard them talk, heard them laugh, shout, smile.

It was simply depressing to know that their bodies were being used in such ugly manner.

He had to wonder who these three men were, and how they knew so much about zombies. He wasn't sure of their intentions, but he had to guess that they were the 'good guys'. That they would know to burn the bodies before reanimation left him pretty confident in that they had familiar experience with this. He was suspicious of them–he didn't know why.

But maybe he was just hesitant to accept it, after losing his 'second' family. He was still a little numb in that he'd lost Robert and the others–with Virgil hating him, understandably–and he still felt that agonizing guilt deep in his belly. But at the same time, he wanted to move on–if he dwelled on it...who knows what would happen?

What if those men were willing to let him join them? Would he do it? Would he want to keep immersing himself into the damn zombie business?

He didn't want to–he'd run away the first time, overwhelmed by the continuous slaying of zombies and creatures with Blayne. It had seemed there was no point to it, back then–seeing bodies that were supposed to be dead attacking him. If they didn't know where they were all coming from...how this was all happening...where Caine was...then how were two teenage boys supposed to fix it all?

He'd ran away after the third encounter with Caine and didn't want to go back. Merely hid, hopped and ducked to avoid that responsibility. And...because he had...Robert and the others suffered.

He resolved himself to fix it, thinking about that.

Strange as it was, but if there was another person out there that had struck and stayed with him all this time...then he had a right to jump back into things...to fix it. If that boy was still alive and out there...then Hotstreak felt he had to fix it before he, too, died from the attack.

He was willing to believe that the boy was still alive somewhere out there.

If those men offered him a position with their ranks, he would take it. For the boy, of course. And for revenge against those that killed Robert and the others. He had to take responsibility! And if they didn't...well, he would then look for the boy. That was how he decided on his future.

He had to know more about those men.

He assisted with the fire by jumping off Charger, lighting a match to a woman's ruffled dress. He encouraged the flames by fanning them onto another body, Charger neighing nervously as he pranced, agitated by the smells, the smoke, and the bodies that were slowly taking notice of them. Jumping back onto his horse, he moved out of there, heading back to the corrals, taking casual shots at the bodies in his way.

Ebon and Shiv were still there, with three mounts standing nearby–Ebon picking at his teeth with the crosses, and Shiv looking through his bag of treasures. There was a third man with them, and as he neared, Hotstreak's eyes widened with disbelief, as did the other's.

"Blayne?" he exclaimed, completely surprised and shocked.

"Francis?" Blayne exclaimed, just as startled.

They both stared at each other in considerable amazement–Blayne had grown out of his gangly and youthful appearance into that of a man. Not quite as tall as he, probably just under six feet, he was packed with muscle in shoulders, chest and thighs. He wore the same identifying jacket and hat, only his jacket was shorter, waist length. His pants were leather, and he wore a sort of vest from both the pelt and leather. His boots were similar to Ebon, but with more tread at the bottom. He was outfitted with various weaponry–from a couple of rifles on his back, to rider weapons at his hips, to a large tomahawk strapped to his thigh, and straps of ammo here and there. He also wore a small, leather pack on his back that fitted easily between the two rifles.

This man was easily recognizable as his childhood friend–just incredibly bad-ass as a man. There was a certain strength that he exuded just standing there–as if he'd seen it all and then some.

His facial features had matured, but he'd grown a goatee, his braid was longer–grazing his waist–and he wore glasses that were easily recognizable for the blind. Only this man wasn't blind, shifting the glasses upward to blink incredulous eyes as he stared at Hotstreak with the same measuring consideration.

"_Francis_? _Blayne_?" Both Ebon and Shiv questioned, with disbelieving looks on their faces. Both mentioned men grew abashed, both of them hunching in brief embarrassment at their given names.

Then Hotstreak realized where he'd seen Ebon, before–only it wasn't Ebon. He looked at him with some excitement. "You know of a man named Adam Evans?"

Ebon about jerked violently, shoulders hunching upward, face displaying his surprise. Shiv and Kangorr looked at him in question.

"You look just like him!" Hotstreak continued, feeling elated that he'd realized the similarities. Both men were almost eerily the same, save for a few differences here and there. "Do ya?"

Ebon seemed to sulk, glaring at him before turning away. Shiv tilted his head. "Aw...he's _pouting_! So _cute_..."

Kangorr snickered, looking at a confused Hotstreak. He studied him just as Hotstreak had with him a few moments ago. "Hey, man. Long time no see. Howzit?"

"Okay...just...never thought I'd see ya again. Thought'cha'all were off chasin' zombies. Savin' the world."

"Still am." Kangorr was amused, looking entirely like an older version of the gangly youth he had been. "Just...been weighed down a bit by these two losers. Last I heard of you, you were holding up trains going through the Panhandle..."

"Yeah, but that got old kinda quick." Hotstreak didn't want to talk about it. And Charger was getting restless with the growing smells of rotting human flesh. More moans and screams were sounding throughout the thick walls of smoke and flames. Structures were starting to fall. As embers tossed into the air, Kangorr sighed, looking around himself.

"Well...we're done, here. Let's head back out," he announced, gesturing at their mounts tied nearby. Ebon and Shiv headed toward the animals as Kangorr easily climbed atop of his, a healthy, large-boned Arabian with spotted buttocks, similar to that of a Palomino.

Seeing that horse made Hotstreak think sadly of Virgil.

Kangorr looked at Hotstreak questioningly. All years apart had suddenly felt like nothing. "You gotta home to go?"

"...Nah. Not anymore," Hotstreak said with a heavy sigh.

"Roll with us."

"...Fine. Whatever. For now, at least."

Kangorr gave a lopsided grin, Ebon and Shiv looking a little curious in that Hotstreak was accepted so easily by their 'leader'. It had taken them awhile to get into the man's trust, and this redhead was accepted _just like that_? They exchanged looks, but said nothing. Ebon mounted his auburn-colored gelding, and Shiv hopped easily onto his white and black spotted mare. Kangorr lead the way out of town, the others following closely.

The small settlement continued to burn, decorating the sky with black smoke.


	9. Possession

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

A/N: K, need a break from editing and posting. Will continue this story in a few days. This chapter has some Exorcist action going on.

**Chapter Eight:  
>Possession<strong>

Alva's horse paced with agitation, the older man looking around himself with a sort of calculating air. Behind him, his son and his friends glanced about with similar expressions. One of the women was crying, her sniffles audible, carrying along the breeze that sent dust about.

"Shut her up," Alva snapped in a low hiss, glancing over his shoulder.

The town they'd arrived was silent; still–abandoned in a haste. Settled deep within a valley void of wide open spaces, the Alvas and their money-makers had no clue where to go. The group of thirteen–five whores and seven men–were tired, hungry and desperate. The trains weren't operating–those that they'd found were burnt, or laying off the tracks. They'd gone North rather than East, for Alva had known some points of safety in the area.

Unfortunately...it appeared they were too late.

Squinting against the high mounted sun, Alva nudged his horse forward, leading the group into the small town.

Junior tossed his father an annoyed expression, guiding his horse alongside Alva's, armed with a shotgun. Richie was still behind him, trying very hard not to touch the younger Alva.

"There ain't nothin' here," Junior pointed out. "Everyone all gone. Why we stopping here?"

Alva didn't answer him for a few moments, spitting slickly to the side as he searched for any possible dangers to their group. The town was intensely still–it appeared that no one was there, and hadn't been for awhile. The hard packed dirt underfoot was undisturbed–no footprints belonging to man or animal marred the surface. The windows of visible buildings were smudged with dust. Everything looked ghostly in the sense of abandonment.

"We'll need supplies," he said gruffly. "Figure out what to do. Rest the horses."

Junior frowned, figuring on him being right. He was quite parched, but he hadn't yet complained. His father, during the journey from their home, had shot two of his men when they'd complained about the constant ride. A horse had been destroyed for collapsing under the load of money and valuables Alva had insisted on taking. Junior was just too tired and numb to really cause his father any trouble.

Looking around, he saw a dry goods store with a large barrel posted out front–the sign displayed broadcasted a small list of things that could be found inside. The group spread out cautiously, eyes roving about, looking for anything out of place and dangerous. Alva eyed the store.

"Two of you–! Go in there, see what's there," he ordered, glancing back at the others.

Many of them hesitated, looking at each other. More than wary after what they'd seen, leaving their rides seemed like a horrible idea. What if a quick getaway was needed? Junior glared back at them, then shot his father a disgusted look. "Why can't _you_ do it?"

Alva's black eyes narrowed in his direction, his horse snorting restlessly as leather creaked. Junior clamped his mouth shut, then shot his cronies a peeved expression.

"Specs! Trapper! Git on in there!" he ordered, his horse shifting as he pointed his gun at each man.

Both men looked entirely pained, but slid off their horses, the women riding with them taking the reins cautiously. One of them, Patty, clutched them to her blood splattered bosom–her dress was in shambles, dusty–her makeup had darkened the area around her eyes.

Teresa, seated behind Casey, shot her a warning look, silent communication between the women warring between them. Trapper gave Patty a look, hesitating once he recognized the desperation in her eyes.

Junior, seeing none of this, snapped, "Hurry up!"

His voice rang through the stillness, startling more than one person and horse. Patty clutched the reins tightly, swallowing hard, her thick body shivering as the horse underneath her side-stepped. Richie looked over at her, holding loosely onto Junior's sides, watching the horrid combination of orange and brown ruffle with a breeze that sent rancid smells their way. Patty's hair caught the slight gust, moving over her eyes as she watched the men venture close toward the store.

Teresa watched her the entire time, stern features pulled into an intense expression of warning.

The others saw none of this, focused on Specs and Trapper as they walked up the worn stairs into the porch, looking obviously tense and nervous as they glanced around themselves. The silence grew thicker, the horses even pausing their movements as the redhead approached the door. Trying the handle, Specs opened the door cautiously, pushing his gun in first, then entering fully, Trapper right behind him.

The men were focused on their actions–Patty saw this. Tightening her thighs, she turned the horse, kicking her heels into its sides. The explosion of movement caused everyone to startle, looking over to see her racing furiously away from them.

"Shoot her!" Alva snarled, Junior cursing as he reined his horse to the side, intending to do just that. But he ended up dropping his weapon, cursing loudly once more as his father shot him a disgusted expression at his failure.

Casey didn't hesitate–he began discharging a few shots until the woman gave a strangled jerk out of her saddle, flying into the dirt as the horse continued to run.

"Stop!" Teresa cried, Jessie breaking into tears once more, Angel hiding her face into the back of the cowboy she was riding with. "_Please_–!"

"Shut up!" Alva snapped, spurring his horse toward the fallen woman, her shrieks and sobbing filling the air as she struggled to reach her back, where she'd been shot. Everyone watched with a sort of horrified air as the older man reached the woman, firing a couple of times into her struggling form. Once the woman stilled, Jessie began crying harder, stuffing her knuckles into her mouth in an effort to quiet herself.

Teresa looked away, looking over at Angel with a sort of despairing expression.

Riding back, Alva reloaded his weapon. "Anyone else tries to leave, will be shot matter-of-factly," he barked, eyeing the other whores pointedly. "Is that clear? Does eve'yone understand?"

"Shit...now we only gots four," Junior complained, having jumped off his horse, holding the reins tightly in one hand while he retrieved his weapon.

"We'll find more," Alva told him gruffly, looking back at Specs and Trapper. "Git in there and look for supplies! Quit yer eyeballin', boys!"

With low grumbles, both men ventured into the store, the door closing behind them.

In the end, the town was discovered completely empty. They found their supplies, and some horses that were unscathed by the chaos, running freely nearby. They were fitted with the supplies that were found, and a couple of the riders transferred their extra passengers onto them. By the time they had organized themselves, night had fallen. Alva found a nicely sized boarding house, and organized shelter for all of them. The remaining whores were locked into the kitchen, the only place without windows, while the others sought out rooms of comfort and security.

They were given a small stub of a candle, and it burned faintly, just providing enough light to keep the four aware of their cell.

Teresa, looking worn and drawn, pulled her knees up to her chest as she looked at the others. Jessie was curled up near the stove, staring at nothing–Angel was holding the bustier of her dress with fitful movements. Richie was sitting by himself near the pantry, examining his blistered feet with intense scrutiny. It was as if no one knew what to say to each other.

Someone's growling stomach interrupted the silence, and the women shifted restlessly, Richie embarrassed by the noise.

Teresa rose from her position. "Might as well as make the best of this place," she murmured, looking through the cupboards. "Let's make ourselves useful. Look for somethin' edible."

"Why they wanna keep us?" Jessie asked, sullenly tossing Teresa a glance. "'S not like we'll be makin' any money any time soon. This is unfair."

"Who knows with those _vatos_, Jessie. You seen what happened to Patty–ain't like we can do anything about it," Teresa answered tiredly, taking the wrapped roll of bread that Richie had found in the pantry. "We just gotta...do what they say. Maybe...maybe in the end, they realize that we won't be doin' them any good by just keepin' us around. Y'know?"

"Yeah, but...what's goin' happen between then and now?" Jessie challenged, shooting the older woman a look. She pushed her dark hair from her face. "They gonna use us? They gonna keep using us for their needs?"

"Don't know, Jessie. Shut up, now, and look for something for us to drink."

"Why do we have to listen to you? You ain't the boss of us!"

Teresa shot her a quelling look, then turned her attention to the wrapped parcel Richie handed her. Slowly, Angel pulled herself to her feet, disregarding her ripped dress to search for something liquid to drink.

"It won't do for us to fight amongst each other," Teresa added, frowning upon revealing a hard, flat piece of bread in the parcel. Richie pulled out a couple of packs of dried meat, muttering that there was nothing more in there. "Leave that for them guys. We'll survive by keepin' our mouths shut and stickin' up for each other."

Jessie gestured around helplessly. "Basically all we _been_ doin'."

"An' look where it got us!"

"Yeah! No where! With them!"

"Jessie, it won't be so bad," Angel tried, shooting the dark haired woman a look. "They too stressed to use us. Guys can't get it up when their minds are all occupied with other things."

"Yeah, but...when it comes down to it...when they ready to focus on us, then what? We get the short end. They'll get us pregnant. 'Cept for you," Jessie added, shooting Richie an annoyed look. "Can't care for no babies. We don't got the formula with us! I didn't exactly pack it under my skirts when we was all invaded..."

"Then we'll tell them. If so, just be prepared for them rutting our asses," Teresa muttered.

Jessie gave a disgusted sound, hitting the wall with her back. "We're human beings, too," Jessie mumbled.

"But we're _owned_ human beings," Teresa corrected, sitting opposite her as Angel set a pitcher of water from a nearby barrel between them. The four settled, and began to share what they'd found. Eating in silence, all of them were lost in their thoughts, the candle tossing shadows around them.

Hours passed–Teresa blew out the candle earlier, wanting to preserve what was left, and the four of them were huddled together against the door; to keep unwanted persons out.

Staring at the thick darkness, hearing nothing beyond the locked doors, Teresa wondered what was going to happen to them all. Where were they going to go? What were they going to do? She felt Angel shift against her, her head resting upon her shoulder. Teresa was uncomfortable upon feeling the woman's bare breasts against her arm, but what could she do? Her dress was torn, and it wasn't as if they could do anything about it.

On the other side of her, Richie sat stiffly, apparently just as awake as she. She could hear Jessie's quiet breathing, but she wasn't sure if she was asleep.

Teresa couldn't sleep–too overly anxious, scared, and uncomfortable to rest. She exhaled heavily, shifting so that she was using Angel to prop herself up as well.

She wondered what the men were going to do when they woke up.

**010101010110**

Junior was sulking as he left his father's room, glaring at Casey as the cowboy looked over at him questioningly.

"He don't got any idea what he wants to do," Junior spat, utterly annoyed at his father. The morning sun was rising, casting the silent town in a pinkish glow. Junior could tell his friend hadn't caught up on sleep–just like him. Nobody could sleep after what they'd seen. "Goes on an' on 'bout nothin', but he don't got any clue."

"We gonna stay here, long?" Casey asked anxiously. "Thought we heard noises, last night. Trapper an' I. But...they kinda went away."

Junior snorted as he took the stairway down. "Meanin', ya'll were too scared to check it out?"

"Mebbe it was nothin', man. Animals, prolly."

"Check them horses, then. Take a few guys with ya. I'mina check on the whores."

Casey shrugged, walking off to do just that as Junior headed toward the kitchen. Once reaching the locked door, he pressed his ear against the wood, listening for any indication that they were still in there. It was quiet, but he doubted that they'd gotten away. He worked the lock, hearing the startled shuffle of movement behind the door, and opened the heavy wood. He saw the women first, then Richie, all of them looking exhausted and downcast. He frowned at them, eyes raking over every one and determining what to do with them.

Finally, he muttered, "One at a time for bathroom. Who's first? An' none of ya'll better be bleeding, dammit. Them things could prolly smell it an' come lookin'."

All of them looked at each other, and Teresa instructed Jessie to go first. She speared Junior with a determined expression. "We need some things."

"Like what?" he asked, with heavy exasperation that he was being ordered about.

"Her dress needs to be fixed," Teresa pointed out Angel's bustier. "We would like some sewing supplies."

Junior scoffed at the woman's dress, but shrugged as Jessie walked out. "Anything else?"

"Blankets. It was cold, here."

"Deal with it."

Teresa gave him an exasperated look. "Don't be treating us like animals, Junior. We're not animals!"

"Coulda fooled me. There's four of ya here–ya'll could keep each other warm. It ain't that cold."

"...Please. Some blankets."

Junior snorted, and shut and locked the door, Jessie giving him a sullen look. With a mutter, he prodded her forward, instructing her on which direction to take.

By the time night had fallen, Angel examined her sewing, the others spread out around her, trying to occupy themselves with various things. Junior hadn't given into Teresa's request for blankets. Sitting topless, Angel cast Teresa a nervous expression, tossing the top toward her. Teresa examined her work, then frowned, gesturing for the needle and thread. Adding to Angel's work, Teresa sighed heavily.

"I'd rather they not treat us like animals," she grumbled, apparently changing her mind about her earlier arguments. "We're just as human as they."

"Do ya think that those things can really smell ya blood?" Jessie asked apprehensively, tossing Richie an embarrassed glance. But he was more abashed than them to hear such a conversation.

"...Dunno," Teresa answered truthfully, tying off a small knot, and handing the top back to Angel. "Maybe it was all just a threat. To scare us. Y'know Junior. Always tryin' ta throw his weight around, an' act all important."

"He's stupid," Jessie agreed. "Ya'd think he'd have a little more _cojones_ than lissen to that old man of his. Think he's a pussy?"

"Of course!" Teresa snapped. "He is! They all are! They should just let us go!"

"But," Angel countered timidly, pulling her top on. "I think it's better to stay wit' them. They got the guns–they can protect us. That's what they doin', anyway."

"Yeah, because when they find a place to settle, they just gonna start sellin' us, again," Teresa grumbled, leaning against the door, kicking her feet out in front of her. "That's why they went out of their way to take us along. We make their money."

Angel thought of it that way, but shrugged. "Still...we're just as valuable, then. They won't let anything happen to us."

Jessie snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Some _chivalry_."

She looked over at Richie, who was sitting furthest from them, examining his glasses. She lifted her chin in his direction. "What'chu think, honky? Ain't heard anything from you."

Richie was startled at the attention that came to him, and, embarrassed, tossed her a short glance. He shrugged.

"I don't know what to think," he confessed quietly. "But I hate being treated this way."

"Don't you feel less of a man? _Are_ you a man?" Jessie asked, frowning at him. There were times when he seemed so young, and incredibly naive. Mirage had behaved in a more mature manner than he. His voice was as soft and quiet as the young girl's. It irritated Jessie, sometimes.

"I...don't...I wouldn't want to be treated this way, anyway, regardless of gender."

"Do you wish you were out there, wit' them? I mean, doin' them man things that makes 'em all tough?"

"I...I've never touched a gun. Nor ridden a horse, before, my entire life. I wouldn't know what to do with either."

Jessie snorted with disgust, tired of her own questions. She stared up at the ceiling. The candle flickered briefly, then died. Everyone held their breath, not moving. From their position, they could hear heavy footfalls coming from the outside, the shifting noises of movement down the hall. Angel sucked in a deep breath, and Teresa tensed against the door.

The movement stopped–but they knew it wasn't the men that owned them.

For a few moments, the kitchen was silent, tense–then Jessie whispered, the sound almost too quiet to be heard, "That ain't them, issit?"

Teresa shook her head, swallowing hard. It wasn't the men–that much she was aware. Where were they?

The house shook suddenly, sending items in the pantry and cupboards rattling. The four of them shifted, and Teresa settled her weight against the door. "C'mon," she panted. "If we hold it shut, they can't come in."

"I don't wanna sit there!" Angel whimpered, as the house shuddered again. She muffled a scream behind her hands.

Jessie moved quickly, settling alongside Teresa.

"What is that?" she hissed, the floors rattling underneath them. It felt as if something large was rolling underneath the floorboards, sending them in a rocking motion forward and back. Angel screamed in horror, the cupboards flying open, items slamming to the floor.

Richie rose unsteadily from his position, trying not to panic, hearing the halls filling with motion and sound.

Then, everything went silent–still. No one dared to breathe, listening hard as nothing more happened.

Teresa and Jessie began to relax, struggling to breathe normally as they kept their weight against the door. The darkness kept the four from seeing each other, the silence deafening. Angel sucked in a breath, then held it, holding tightly onto the stove. Richie held his own position against the wall, not daring to breathe as he strained his ears to hear for anything unusual.

For several tense minutes, nothing happened–they couldn't even hear anything beyond the door. More than one person was wondering where the men were–why couldn't they hear them? Were they even alive?

"We're going to die in here," Angel whispered, muffling her own voice with her hands.

Teresa shook her head tightly, refusing to relax as she strained to hear any sort of movement from the men. She felt Jessie's breath on her face.

"They still alive?" she asked tensely.

Richie swallowed hard, licking his lips. Unsure of what to do. They hadn't any weapons–they hadn't any way to escape. What was going to happen to them?

Light flickered as the candle re-lit itself, four sets of eyes darting toward the stump atop of the stove. Angel moved quickly away from the thing, hitting the wall opposite it, breathing heavily.

Teresa cast her a nervous look. "You didn't do that?"

Angel shook her head tightly, staring at the flicking flame with wide, fear heavy eyes. Richie cast the others nervous looks, feeling his knees weakened as he wondered how that was possible.

For several moments, everyone stared at the flame in heavy, tense silence, not daring to breathe. Nothing was heard outside the room. No one knew what had happened, or what to do.

Richie was about to join the other two against the door when Angel seized suddenly, drawing in a strangled breath. Looking at her, he was stunned to see her eyes roll up into her head, her skin darkening with red–veins pulsed tightly against her skin, her throat tensing as her body drew in a continuous strangled sound.

No one moved, watching her with all the stiff disbelief that they'd felt earlier. Unsure of what they were seeing.

Angel's body contorted away from the wall, her spine stiffening, head falling back. Her mouth widened with that continuous sound, air pinched and clenched as her lungs expanded. Her skin grew even darker, veins pulsating with strengthened vigor against her flesh. The veins in her eyes grew more distinguished, the pupils completely out of sight–her lashes fluttered, and her mouth widened.

Her hands were stiff and rigid–then the wrists bent at stiff angles, fingers curling, arms twisting inward into her body. She stopped drawing in air, convulsing in tight, rigid movements, her head whipping back and forth in violent movements.

"_What is wrong with you_?" Jessie cried, the two women shifting away from Angel's proximity, Richie moving away from her as well.

Angel slammed back first against the wall, air leaving her widened mouth in a harsh sort of exhale, shoulders heaving upward as her hands curled and twisted in front of her. Convulsing wildly, she hit the wall several times in violent action, hair flying about.

Jessie shrieked, rising to her feet, pounding on the door as Teresa continued to gape at Angel in stiffened reaction. Richie tripped over a pile of pots that were lining one wall near the stove, stumbling as Angel began to hack in roughened, male tones.

Suddenly, she quieted, and relaxed. The other three paused, staring at her in silent expectation–the kitchen wholly quiet. The woman didn't move–her face staring up at the ceiling, her body rigid. Her arms dropped to her sides, fingers relaxing. She was breathing normally. Jessie turned away from the door, Teresa pushing herself to her feet.

The candle flickered violently, almost going out–three sets of eyes moving toward it in desperation.

Angel exhaled, head falling forward, and lifting to look at the others. Her pupils still hadn't returned–the whites of her eyes were still visible. Her lashes fluttered in rapid action, and her facial muscles seemed to tighten, lips opening to suck in a wet breath.

Her hands began to curl and inch upward toward her chest, in rigid action, as if she were going to seizure again–then her body relaxed, and her head dropped forward. Lifting again and spearing the two women with a leering expression. Her mouth was twisted, spittle dripping over her chin.

"I smell the smell of man's cum on your breath," Angel hissed, her voice not her own. Her pupils returned, and her facial muscles tightened once more, neck tendons standing out. "Sluts! _Whores_! _God's_ whores! _God's_ whores! Reek! Ravage! Spit! Swallow! Disgusting, _vile_! Shit stain!"

"What the fuck's th' _matter_ wit' you?" Teresa shrieked, Jessie once more pounding on the door and screaming for the men.

Jerkily, Angel looked over at Richie, who tensed against the stove, unable to move. "And _you_...sick! Vile! Desecration! You make me sick! Ride him like a horse! Shit! Shit! Eat my shit!"

"_Angel_?" Teresa asked, drawing close to the door, Jessie casting the changed woman a wary look. "What's the matter with you, girl? _What's the matter_?"

Angel convulsed once, her shoulders going rigid, arms slack at her sides. Her face turned up at the ceiling, hissing and spitting, her own spittle hitting her face. She then straightened, giving the three an intensely insane look.

"_Meat_," she announced, then lunged at the two women, snarling savagely.

Richie watched with a sense of disbelieving shock as Jessie and Teresa fought to keep her away from them. Angel was trying to bite them, her nails curling into their hair, their arms–snarling as angrily as a mad dog. He found strength to move, tripping over the pots to race over, wrapping an arm around Angel's throat and pulling her back. The woman screeched in an inhuman manner, reaching back for him, her fingers curling into his hair and clothing.

Jessie pushed away from the door, Teresa turning to pound on it savagely, screaming for help.

Richie tripped as his feet entangled within the folds of Angel's dress, and the pair of them hit the floor. Angel, still snarling, turned and climbed atop of him, her teeth baring down toward his face. Through some act of luck, Richie pushed at her chin, fingers just missing the clenching action of her bared teeth. They struggled violently, Angel screaming expletives as she raked at the boy's shirt, trying to bite off anything within her reach. Jessie picked up a heavy skillet, and lunged at her, slamming it across her face.

The impact sent the demonic woman flying backwards, Richie picking himself up quickly. Teresa left the door as Angel slammed into the heavy wood. All three of them moved away from the heaving woman, who began to laugh in a demented manner. She pushed her hair from her face, spearing them with an expression not of her own. Her skin had turned a gruesome shade of green–a sickly smell emanated from her.

"All of you will be whores until the day you die," she announced, but it wasn't Angel speaking. It was a man, with a cultured voice; dripping with worldly knowledge.

Calmly, she brushed herself off, and rose, straightening her bodice. "Come now, you really think you can stop me? The three of you? So experienced to being on your backs–you can't possibly think you can be anything more. Tainted, ruined, savaged–who would want _you_?"

Teresa, shaking, stared at the woman with disbelieving eyes. She looked at the others, noting that the three of them were pressed against the back wall. Jessie had armed herself with the skillet, holding it in front of her, her arm shaking wildly.

Angel watched them for a few moments, then reached down, gathering her skirts. She lifted them, piling them into one arm to expose the thick bush of her pubic hair.

With her other hand, she began ramming her fist against herself, cackling wildly. "You want this? Savage bitch, you want it? Women on women aren't that bad. Come try me out. I'll bet you haven't been with a woman before, have you boy? Come and get it, children. Free goodies. I'm giving out free goodies!"

She laughed wildly, dropping her skirts, throwing her head back, arms slapping her sides. Then, just as abruptly, she stopped–looking at them sharply.

Lifting an eyebrow, she asked, "Do you really think you'll live through this? Just give up. Give in to us. There's no point in trying to resist. _Really_."

Jessie, sucking in a deep breath, shook her head. "That ain't Angel no more, girls. That's something else."

"What is it?" Richie asked, unable to look away from the ruined creature that faced them sullenly.

"Some sort of–of demon? I don't know! I don't know!"

Angel tilted her head curiously. She studied each one, her eyes then snaking toward the candle nearby. The other three looked at it–but she was closest.

Her teeth, when her lips pulled back into a vicious sneer, gleamed in the faint candlelight. "Time for night-night, kiddies."

Hearing those words, the three tensed–then watched with rising panic as Angel quickly crossed the space between herself and the stove, blowing out the candle, plunging them into darkness.

She cackled, an inhuman sound that seemed to rattle off the walls of the kitchen.

**010101010110**

Junior was feeling much more relieved the next morning. He'd gotten some sleep, and felt a little rested. Alva had finally come up with a plan, and while Junior didn't agree much with his father, he felt that this one wasn't half bad. He left his room, listening to the sounds of morning–there weren't any animals nearby, save for their horses, and it was more than eerie hearing nothing at all when he was so accustomed to hearing city noises.

The air was cool, and the sun was starting to rise–there were three cowboys standing at post, and they greeted him quietly when he neared them.

"Nothin' goin' on?" he asked them curiously.

"_Nothin'_," one, Mitch, answered. "Quiet all night. We gonna stay here, man?"

"Nah. The old man's fixin' to talk to the lot of us, after breakfast. He got a plan. Sounds good, actually," he confessed. "You guys need a rotation?"

"We're good for now," another, Tim, said with a nod. "Don't think I could sleep, anyway."

"I'm going to let the whores out. Mebbe see if some of ya'll can cook? I can't cook."

"Andy can. We'll wake 'im up," Mitch said, walking off toward the cowboy's room.

Junior nodded in satisfaction, then descended the stairway, yawning loudly. He anticipated bacon, coffee and some eggs–something a little filling. He left the house to attend to his business, noting that the horses were still where they left them–that the streets were still empty. Nothing moved, not even a breeze.

Feeling chills race up his spine, he made his morning pee, shaking his shoulders out as the horses shifted nearby. He didn't bother with the outhouse nearby–there was just something creepy about locking himself in there when there were appalling things about. He didn't want to be caught inside when they attacked, or be in there and having one shoot up from the shit hole unexpectedly.

After that, he headed into the house, and headed toward the kitchen. He unlocked the door, opening it, ready to wake them up with gruff countenance. Angel spilled out with a thump of rigid action, hair spilling over his boots. He looked down at her with annoyance, intending to give her a piece of his mind when he noticed that her face was battered–her jaw hung to one side. Bruises colored her face, blood colored her hairline. He leapt backward with a startled curse, Angel's head thumping heavily against the floor. Sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling.

Withdrawing his gun with clumsy action, Junior looked back at the kitchen. The walls had marks on them–as if someone had dragged their fingernails through the wood. He looked inside, seeing the other three huddled together against the back wall–staring at him with intense wariness, exhaustion. All of them looked battered and bloody–armed with kitchen tools and skillets.

He pushed the door wider, looking at the chaos. He stared at them in confused reaction. Then looked around the kitchen, where it was obvious a battle had been fought. Blood was everywhere.

He looked back at the other three.

"What's...what's goin' on?" he asked slowly, carefully. The three continued staring at him, and he grew exasperated. "What the hell happened, here? Ya'll git up–_git up_, an' get over here. _Now_. Before I get pissed."

Teresa looked at the others questioningly. She had scratches from nails down one side of her face, swollen and puffy, oozing with the movement she made as she spoke. Her bodice was ripped, her breasts nearly spilling out save for a few threads that kept them in place. "Sounds like 'im..."

"_Smells_ like him," Jessie muttered low. She herself had scratches over her cheek, one eye reddened violently. She had the most blood spackles over her exposed skin, and scratches all over her chest and upper arms.

"Looks the same," Richie whispered, with a shrug. His nose was bloodied, an eye reddened in the same way as Jessie's, shirt ripped at the collar. His glasses were no where to be seen.

"Ya'll think it's him? He ain't like her?" Jessie asked, throwing Junior a wary glance, brushing her dark hair from her face.

Junior grew exasperated, walking in and charging over. Immediately, all three tensed, bringing up their weapons, and he grew startled, stopping short as he faced a skillet, a rolling pin and a knife sharpener. He was a little thankful that Casey had brains to think of removing the sharper objects from the kitchen before they'd locked them in there.

He brought his gun up and aimed it in their general direction. "Ya'll lower those things, right now. Y'all are pissin' me off. Yer gonna git it if'n you don't listen to me."

"What the hell happened?" Alva's alarmed voice caught their attention. Junior looked back to see his father examining Angel, then barging in, looking at the mess. "What happened, here? What's goin' on?"

"Don't know. They all _crazed_, alla sudden," Junior muttered, looking at the three.

With an exasperated sigh, Alva shoved his son aside, pushing the skillet aside to drag Jessie to her feet. He pulled her out, Junior lowering his gun with a sort of irritated expression. As Teresa and Richie straightened, he slipped the gun into its respective holster, and reached out to grab Richie, who was closest to him. He dragged him out, Teresa following closely as Alva shook some answers out from Jessie.

Hearing what happened, Junior shoved Richie forward, pushing Teresa to follow him, keeping them both in sight. He looked back down at the dead whore at his feet, hearing how she'd suddenly turned on them–how the three managed to kill her. He looked at the three, who looked entirely exhausted, and shook his head in disgust.

Alva looked back at him, obviously as puzzled as they as to how Angel had suddenly grown demonic. _Possessed_. For a moment, he looked at a lost for what to do.

Then, blinking, he looked over at Teresa. "Is that the truth of it?" he demanded.

She nodded solemnly. "Yes. We wouldn't just kill her, sir. She _attacked_ us."

"She wasn't herself," Richie added quietly. He was rubbing at bite marks on his forearms, looking a little dazed. "She spoke like a man, at times."

Alva looked at Junior, who shrugged, unsure of what to do, or think. The older man looked back at the three, who looked dead on their feet. He gave a look of disgust, glancing at Junior, signaling them. "Get them cleaned an' bandaged up. Lock 'em in a room closer to ours. Get those worthless pieces that were supposed to stand guard down here. Why didn't they hear anythin'?"

"Dad, they–!"

"_Now_, Junior! Git them fixed up! Can't have them rotting on us." With a disgusted look at his son, Alva turned, marching for the front. "An' get that body out of here! Drag it someplace where it won't come back!"

Junior ground his teeth, all his muscles tensed, irritation shooting off of him in waves. He looked at the three, noting their injuries and exhaustion. With heavy annoyance, he growled, waving a hand, "Let's go. Upstairs. Get that looked at."

"I have to use the bathroom," Jessie muttered, not moving.

"Ain't no one goin' anywhere 'til ya'll's fixed!"

"We ain't bleeding to death!" Teresa snapped, facing him. "We need to relieve ourselves!"

Fiercely irritated that they were back talking him, Junior turned to face them, feeling his face warm as he eyed them evenly. "Either you git to listenin', or git punished. Ya'll want that? Ya'll want'cher stupid asses kicked? I kin get some friends rounded up and–! _What are you doing_?"

He ended in a shriek as Jessie pulled up her skirts, squatted, and began to pee on the floor. Teresa snickered, and Richie looked away, embarrassed as Jessie gave a relieved sigh. Junior, at a loss of what to do, flung his arms out with reaction.

"I had to _pee_!" Jessie shouted at him. "You wouldn't let me pee!"

Growling low, Junior bellowed for Casey. The cowboy, accompanied by others, hurried down the stairway, looking at Jessie in stunned reaction. The woman gave a low purr, straightened, and stepped over the wide puddle she'd made before lowering her skirts.

She gave them all a sweet smile. "Anyone up for a golden shower?"

Junior smacked her across the face, shoving her toward the nearest cowboy. "Git her upstairs, lock her in Spec's room. Someone, get those other two outside, 'fore they start marking up the place like that cunt did! Casey, you an' me gotta git rid of this body, quick."

"What happened–?"

"Let's just get goin'! Answer that later! Someone, get them to the bathroom!" Junior then shouted in exasperation when no one moved.

Trapper herded both Richie and Teresa outside with wary looks cast at Angel's body. Casey reluctantly stood over the corpse with a wrinkled nose, Junior casting the puddle an annoyed look.


	10. Schism

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**Chapter Nine**:  
><strong>Schism<strong>

His arms throbbed with stinging pain that made it tough to move them. Chunks of skin and some muscle had been torn right off of bone, and it had taken some cauterizing to close a few. The pain was agonizing, and he'd been embarrassed to haveing passed out when Teresa sewed some of them back up. The women had smaller wounds that didn't require such extensive treatment, but all three of them were battered and worn.

Neither of them knew why Angel had behaved in the manner she had. Richie, for all his knowledge, didn't know what 'Possession' was. Alva wasn't explaining why he knew what he did.

This incident made the men much more wary than they were, before.

Richie stared up at the pictures mounted on the wall of the town's only saloon. Many of them were depictions of nude women, displayed in positions that looked uncomfortable and fulfilling for the men that were interested. He felt sorry for the models–the painter's depiction had captured their tired and aged eyes perfectly.

He looked over at Specs, Trapper, Tim, and Mitch; all of whom were raiding the bar's supplies. No one was paying attention to him. He looked away from the wall, and found an open doorway that led away from the bar, and into a narrow stairway leading up.

Alva had gotten the idea that everyone was to raid the town. Find supplies, find weapons, find money and valuables. Everyone–including the whores.

Personally, Richie was grateful to be allowed out. He didn't mind the raiding aspect–as long as he wasn't locked up in some room. Specs and Trapper were supposed to be keeping an eye on him, while Tim and Mitch were supposed to be watching Jessie. But Jessie had wandered off toward the whore's rooms, muttering something about finding some dresses and undergarments.

It was a good idea, really. The clothing he was wearing stank of his own body odor, and was dried with both his and the others' blood.

Walking up the stairway, he found that it led into a series of rooms. Richie began searching that floor, finding that it was offices and storage spaces of everything the former owner had apparently deemed important.

One room was that of a man's, and once he found the clothes, he began rummaging through it all, looking for something that would fit him.

Later that afternoon, he was fiddling with a book he'd found in someone's house, a small pile of treasures sitting next to him. There were a couple of mules standing nearby, outfitted with various leather and chains, pulling a quickly filling wooden cart. The cowboys were currently loading it with dry goods, some valuables they'd found throughout the town, weaponry, ammunition, and other things that they'd deemed important. Teresa and Jessie were talking low about the clothing and supplies they themselves found, standing nearby. Both of them had changed into simpler, plain dresses, and had fixed their hair to look a little more manageable. No one would have guessed their professions upon looking upon them.

He himself had found some clothing that fit him, as well as some boots that fit much better than the others had. He'd also found a hat–his face had gotten sunburnt without that earlier protection.

Alva was barking orders to the men, looking cross as he wiped his face with a worn kerchief, his horse prancing with agitation. He'd found a more suitable shelter on the outer limits of town, where a correl would hold their animals until they were ready to roll out. They were going to move their things from the boarding house to there–and the cowboys really weren't happy about it.

That night, Richie flipped through the book he'd found, Jessie tiredly asking him to read to her as she rested her head on his chest. They had been locked in a room that was quite sizable, with two beds; the women were sharing one, and Richie had the other. Junior had gone through their 'supplies', ranting and raving about carting their 'junk', and the women had argued the entire time with him, managing to piss him off and send him drinking.

Alva had grumbled that if they found their own animals to carry their 'junk', they could keep it. So, tomorrow, the ladies planned on looking for a few animals–the other cowboys had scoffed at them, sure that they'd taken every available one.

Teresa lowered a bonnet she was adding more lace to. Her injuries had swollen that one side of her face–making it seem as if she were attempting to wink. It made her self-conscious.

"Are we stayin', then?" she asked the other two curiously, causing Richie to stop his reading aloud. "I mean...if we're set...are we stayin'? Or, are we...like...unsure of what to do?"

Jessie lifted her head, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. She eyed the woman with a frown. The scratched eye made her seem somewhat devilish.  
>"Angel was right," she said slowly. "Even if we don't like it, an' we hate it, they protectin' us cuz we're their property. I'd feel better if I knew what to do with a gun, an' none of us here knows how to use them."<p>

Teresa thought about it, then shrugged, picking up her sewing once more. "True," she grumbled. "But I still think that if'n we got the chance, we should take it."

"Maybe we can get them to teach us how to use those things," Richie suggested, lowering the book. His arms throbbing with pain, so Teresa had taken a bottle of liquor from the men to give to him. He was currently feeling a little buzzed and joyful. "Go along with their plans, until we're confident in ourselves in using them."

"Like _pretendin_' to join their forces?" Jessie asked, looking at him, then excitedly crawling over him to lay beside Teresa on the other bed. "Like, we'll go along with them, be all submitting, stop all our bullshittin'–then whine about wantin' to defend ourselves, too. Get them to teach us how to shoot–then, when we all good, we bust out one night. When they let their guard down."

"Sounds good," Teresa muttered, lowering the bonnet. "_Then_ what? What we do after we bust free? Where we go?"

"I want to go back home," Richie confessed, rolling onto his stomach and setting his book aside.

"Back to mommy an' daddy?" Jessie sneered.

"_Yes_. And pretend that this never happened. _Ever_."

"I wish I could do that," she muttered sullenly. "My mummy an' daddy were kilt by Indians. Damn red bastards."

"I would like to go back to Spain," Teresa confessed. "But I wouldn't know how to get to my family. We all moved here."

"I would like to find a man. A _real_ one. One that is going to treat me like a damn princess," Jessie said, rolling onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. "Someone that ain't gonna mind that I ain't a virgin. I ain't ever gonna tell him what I used to do, though. Ain't no one want you, then."

"I would like to have a family," Richie muttered, pulling a pillow close to him, "but I don't know, now. I'm afraid no one will accept me."

"Just don't tell them, fool. You a man–ain't like you got a pussy that a man wants intact. You can just go on an' do all your ruttin' on a woman that don't know any better," Jessie said.

"...I can't do that," Richie muttered. "'Ruttin'. That's such an ugly word."

"Prolly can't get it up for ladies, anyway, huh?" Jessie snickered. She left Teresa to bounce back onto the other bed. She began pulling at his pants with a sort of naughty grin. "Let's see! Let's see you get it up for me!"

"NO!"

Teresa rolled her eyes as the two struggled on the bed, Jessie roaring for Richie to pull his pants down. Amid all the shouts and laughter, she barked, "Both of you! Behave! Shut up!"

Someone pounded on the wall, the pair silencing immediately as a drunken slur told them to quiet down. Jessie let him go, sighing heavily as she hung half her body off the bed.

"I'd like to learn how to shoot a gun," she muttered, "and mebbe use it on one of them. _All_ of them."

Teresa cast a look in her direction. She resumed sewing. "Whores are whores all their lives, girl. Y'know that. That one up there," she looked up briefly, at the ceiling, "_He's_ a stingy piece of shit. Don't like women–won't respect them. Won't give them chances when they fall. They make a mistake–_bang_. Lookit what happened to Eve."

Jessie cast a middle finger at the ceiling. "Stingy ole codger."

Teresa nodded firmly. She pricked her finger, and muttered a curse as she pulled it into her mouth. "Gives men all the good chances, an' redeems _them_."

"Not _all_ of them," Richie muttered.

"Busta, you be quiet. You the only one with a dick in here, an' you don't even use it. Don't you be lippin' me, when you all ganged up by women," Teresa snapped.

"_Yeah_," Jessie chimed, lifting a foot to kick him. Richie pushed her off his bed, and she hit the floor with a loud thud.

That same man pounded on the wall.

Jessie snickered as she straightened. She rose from the floor, and headed over to the window. Looking out, she frowned at the full moon, blinking curiously. Hadn't it been full a few days earlier? She looked down at the darkened grounds below–then worked on the window. It was unlocked, and she opened it carefully, exhaling lightly as the cool night air filtered in. She bent forward, resting her elbows on the window sill.

After staring out at the darkness and hearing the silence, she whispered, "Wouldn't it be neat if'n I could sing? Y'know? Just burst into song? Serenade my prince into comin' to me?"

Teresa snorted, throwing an eye roll in her direction. Richie grinned at her, opening his book once more. "You'd be more of a siren, anyway. Luring him to something unfortunate."

Jessie stilled, then picked up one of Teresa's pilfered shoes, hurling it at him.

"Weren't you with old man Thomas, before that? His flaky skin might have rubbed off on you."

Jessie pushed her sleeves up her arms and stomped over to him. Teresa gave an exasperated sigh as the two began fighting again.

"Both of you–! Knock it off!" she hissed, growing irritated with their giggling and wrestling.

Jessie screeched upon being pinned, reaching up to pull on Richie's hair, making him yelp. The pair slipped off the bed, laughing, rolling over the floor. Teresa sat up to bawl them out when she heard the man next door clomp across his floor and shove his door open, heading for theirs. The pair heard this, stilling upon hearing the hallway filled with irritated clomps. They separated quickly as their door opened, all of them facing a very irritated Mitch.

Who was naked, save for his boots–on the wrong feet.

"What's wrong wit' you?" he snapped loudly, obviously trying to sleep off heavy liquor. "Shaddup! Men tryin' ta sleep!"

"They just havin' a nightmare. Go back to sleep," Teresa whispered, waving at him. "We just as tired, too."

Mitch eyed them angrily, then slammed their door shut, clomping back to his room.

Richie waited until he heard Mitch's bedroom door shut, and the sound of his boots hitting the floor. At the muffled thump his bed made in connection with the wall, he snickered. "What do you know? Mitch is pregnant. He's going to have a girl."

Jessie snickered, then started laughing, muffling it behind her palm. "He's a not a natural blond!"

"Both of you–! _Shut up!_ Get inta bed before I smack you both," Teresa grumbled, setting her things aside, and blowing out the candle next to her. "Jessie, I mean it. Who knows what's goin' happen, tomorrow? Old man might be gettin' us to move on. Gotta get our rest."

Jessie sighed tiredly, pushing up from the floor. Richie did the same, moving over to the window to close it. The women settled into their bed, and he crawled into his, blowing his candle out before pulling his blankets over him. As he settled, staring out into the darkness and hearing Teresa and Jessie whisper a hurried conversation in Spanish, he thought of a pair of green eyes–wondering if that cowboy was still alive; and, if he were, if they'd ever see each other again.

He felt miserable in that moment, shutting his eyes tight; he didn't want to think of a man. He wanted to be able to do things right. He tried to make himself think more of Jessie–but he just couldn't do it.

**010101010110**

Junior was annoyed with him. Frankly, Richie had to wonder when Junior _wasn't_–even when the man was taking his turn on him, he'd complained. The younger Alva was obviously a very unhappy man.

The men, save for Alva, were gathered out in the correl, target practicing. Richie managed to ask for some guidance in the area, and Junior had actually agreed to it.

Even more surprising, _he_ was the one showing Richie how to shoot.

"You _do_ this, an' _take this_, an' hold it _right here_–! How many _times_ do I haveta tell you–? Fuck, I get so tired of tryin' ta make ya _lissen_–! Hold it _right here_!" Junior angrily jerked Richie around into the proper position, jamming the rifle butt firmly against his shoulder. "When it kicks back, it gonna hit you in the face. In fact, why don't you do it like that, huh?"

The others were laughing at him.

Junior pulled away from him, snarling angrily, and the men quieted. Junior looked back at Richie, then kicked the back of his knee, making him fall to the ground with a startled yelp. With intense frustration and short temperament, Junior yanked the boy to his feet.

"Aw, Christ–! Git back up–! Git this gun in position, an' so help me, you miss, an' I'll make you pay–!" Junior stepped back, still snarling his threats as Richie straightened, positioning the rifle correctly, and taking aim at the coyote Jerry had trapped. The man collected coyote pelts, and figured it was okay to sacrifice one if it meant to better their numbers against another invasion.

Richie felt sorry for the animal, but he didn't want to go through another one of Junior's fits, so he fired just as the coyote tried to make a leap for the correl walls. It was such a shame to watch the animal slam hard against one of the posts, ripped from the side by the blast. His arms felt intensely shaky and weak-throbbing painfully with the wounds he'd gotten. Feeling the wetness start to soak his bandages, he grimly guessed that he'd opened a few with this. But he really didn't care-learning to shoot a gun was better than nothing.

Some of the men cheered at the lucky shot, Richie lowering the shotgun with a saddened expression. Junior grunted. "First timer's luck," he muttered, handing over a couple of shells. "Now, reload, an' aim at that there bottle on the center left post."

Richie did so, spying the lone bottle atop of the post. Once he'd had the weapon loaded, he positioned himself and aimed–catching the bottle easily. More cheers.

Junior snatched the rifle from him, and handed him one of his six-shooters. "Try wit' that. Aim fo' the coyote's head. Better yet, aim for it's eye."

Richie stared at the hand gun for a few moments, then lifted his arm, aiming clumsily. Junior scoffed when the empty click of the barrel signaled the lack of a bullet. He slapped the back of the boy's head, sending his glasses flying.

"_Idiot_! Only five barrels are loaded. Remember that! The first one's _always_ empty." Junior frowned as he retrieved his glasses quickly, setting them right and aiming again.

His laugh was ugly when the kick of the weapon had the boy smacking his face with the gun. The other men laughed as well, throwing down some shots. Junior then frowned when he realized that Richie's target had been met–the coyote's head was a gruesome display of skull, flesh and brains. He began looking for other targets.

Pointing at a lizard perched atop of another fencepost six lengths down, he commanded a shot of that.

Holding the gun with both hands and locking his arms, Richie aimed for that and watched, with intense guilt, as the shot sent the lizard flying into pieces.

Junior snatched his gun back. "That's enough. Yer wastin' my ammo."

"C'mon, teach! There's more ta be learnin'!" one of the men shouted, laughing. "I'm learnin' a lot from ya!"

Junior turned, firing at him. The men scattered, falling from the correl posts and taking off with startled shouts. With a satisfied smirk, he lowered his gun and frowned at the boy that refused to meet his eyes. A little annoyed that he was actually a very good shot, Junior reloaded his weapon and slipped it back into its holster.

"That all you want? You know how ta use one," he said gruffly. "I ain't teachin' those women nothin'. Women don't got to know that stuff."

"...It's a men's only club?"

"You ain't no man, kid."

"...Then...?"

"I'm just doin' this cuz we might, just _mebbe_ need ya one day," Junior muttered, hating that fact. "The women, they'd just fuck it up. Panic. They're a weepy lot. Can't handle stuff like that."

"Teresa and Jessie are actually–"

Junior whacked him across the head to shut him up. "Don't back talk me, boy! I _know_ what I know! I ain't teachin' those women _nothin_', an' you'd best not to, either! If I catch you tryin' to show them how, I'm goin' to work you over somethin' fierce!"

"I'm sorry..."

"Damn right, you are." Junior grumbled a bit more, then hefted up his belt, glaring into the distance.

Richie glanced at him to see what was next, a little more than tense standing next to him. He was waiting to be hit, actually. Junior was quite free with smacking the three of them around with no regard to their wounds or status. He viewed everyone as workers; slaves. He hadn't any respect for anyone–perhaps just a little for his father.

Richie tried to think–he didn't want to be locked up in their room, where Teresa and Jessie currently were. Being outside, with the others, felt great.

"What about a horse?" he asked quickly. "I don't know how to ride a horse."

Junior scoffed at him. "I ain't givin' you no horse! You an' that other girl are sharin' one. Whether you fit on it, or not."

"But...it would help–!" Richie quieted quickly when Junior raised a hand.

The younger Alva lowered it with a frown. "Why you wantin' to know all this, alla sudden?"

"Well, um, so far, things haven't been very organized–but the three of us, Junior, we know the value of sticking together. Some things are horribly unfair–"

"_Git to the point_."

"Er, well, in other words–we want to help, too. We're part of this group." Richie licked his lips with uncertainty, judging the other's mood. "Shouldn't we be just as involved?"

"No."

"...um, _why_?"

Junior gave him a disbelieving look, then began marching away, apparently annoyed by the conversation. Richie followed after him hurriedly, fearing any sort of consequence if he didn't.

He didn't get his answer.

That night, Alva allowed the three to sit with the others while a small dinner was served–the three were allowed only because Alva wanted the women to cook. He wanted to know just how educated Richie was, and actually began talking to him about finances and economics. The older Alva was pleasantly surprised that the boy was quite knowledgeable in the area, and spent some time discussing options in financial survival with the boy.

Junior, witness to the conversation, was sullen about it. Just seeing his father–who was very cold and concerned with matters pertaining to his financial successes than his own child–talk with the boy made him considerably angry.

Later on, Junior was nursing a bottle of tequila, sitting alone in the downstairs living room, where he had viewing access to the large window overlooking the front of the house's property, the front door, and the single stairway. He held a rifle in one arm, his six-shooters were nearby, and he was getting quite buzzed as he sullenly went over everything he'd ever done for his father. Alva never seemed to respect him; he never seemed to give him the time of day, unless it was a matter for himself.

Junior hated that about him–he was the only living offspring of Alva, and Alva disregarded him as a simple, mindless worker. There were occasional moments in which Alva treated him more, but the man was cold, a stonewall concerned only with himself.

Junior wasn't looking for love–he'd gotten too old for that childhood yearning. He was just looking for acceptance. Respect. Acknowledgment.

Brooding, he swirled the liquid around in the bottle.

Later that morning, he was dragging Richie out of bed and yelling at him to follow along. Drunk, Junior had come to the conclusion that his father wanted someone like the boy to be his son, and Junior was going to put a stop to that. He ignored the startled women's inquiries, and those of his cronies as he herded the boy out from the house. He wasn't walking straight as he grabbed random bits, reins and a couple of guns from the stockpile in the living room.

By the time they were riding out from town, the others had given up trying to find out what he was doing.

Richie had no idea what was running through Junior's drunken mind, wondering anxiously what the rush, and the meaning of this unexpected journey was about. He was having trouble keeping up with the younger Alva, struggling to stay atop of his horse as Junior led the way through the valley floor. As they drew further and further away from the town, Richie grew more and more anxious.

Finally, Junior stopped in a rocky passageway between two large mountains. The sound of birds, insects and wind sweeping through the area was a welcome cacophony of sounds. Looking around himself, Junior found the area satisfactory, and ordered Richie from his horse.

Slowly, Richie dismounted, eyeing him with wariness. Unsure of what he was going to do.

The younger Alva was swaying atop of his horse's bare back, and he was loading his rifle. Without further questioning, Richie knew what his intention was.

He started to shake, feeling his eyes burn with tears as he felt the situation was very unfair. He didn't know what he'd done wrong–! Hadn't he done everything they'd said? Everything they'd wanted and asked?

...well, true, he did prove it hard for them from time to time, but that was before the zombies. He'd been nothing but a well-behaved prisoner since then. He hadn't done any acts of rebellion since that horrible night.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, then took a deep breath. At least he wouldn't have to submit his body, anymore. That was a wondrous relief. But the things that drew him down once more was that he'd never see his parents, again. He'd never see that cowboy. He'd never have the happiness he'd dreamed of.

It was all so unfair that, rather embarrassingly, he burst into tears.

Junior looked up from his actions, where he was trying to align the shells within their chambers. He scowled drunkenly at the teen that was sobbing with loud hiccups and gulps of air.

"What'cha cryin' fer, ya big baby?" he growled, his voice echoing off the rock walls that surrounded them. He waved the weapon at him, the shells falling out of the chamber, making him grumble with severe irritation. He found matching shells and reloaded. "I ain't even done anythin' ta ya, an' yer cryin' like a gurl."

"Please–! Don't–kill–me!" Richie sobbed. "I–! I haven't done anything–! _Wrong_!"

Junior rolled his eyes, heaving a massive sigh. "Stop your blubberin', boy. An' quit movin' all over th' place. I'm just gonna maim you, a bit. It all makes sense!"

Richie cried harder at that.

"Thinkin'–I got ta thinkin'. I mean, you only about...what? Thirteen? Fourteen–?"

"_No_!"

"...Whatever. An'...an' I was thinkin'...you, when daddy got ya'll out here? Ya'll said you wuz gonna teach, right?"

Richie paused, furrowing his brow. Wondering where this was going. Junior wasn't making any sense.

"So...figurin' on that...you smart, right?" Junior swayed atop of the horse, snapping the chamber shut and propping it carefully into position. "Well...what if you WEREN'T smart, eh? What then?"

Richie stared at him in intense disbelief, then wiped at his eyes. "I...I'm not following..."

"O'course, not! I didn't esplain it ALL!" Junior snapped at him. "Now, _shaddup_! Shaddup wit' all that smart talk! Jush lissen! Jush _LISSEN_!"

Satisfied with the boy's silence, Junior glowered at him, then started off quietly, "If you weren't smart no mo', ya can't teach. Now...not that you were EVER...seein' as daddy got ya workin' som'thin' else...where was I? Shit...now lookit what ya made me do! Made me–lose my thoughts. Fuckin' kid..."

Richie listened to him, thinking quickly. Junior was much too drunk to think clearly, and it was obvious. He wiped his face, not taking his eyes away from the younger Alva for a second. He realized that Junior viewed his education and smarts as a threat–found it a little flattering. And a little sorrowful in that Junior would think so.

He suddenly recalled keeping up conversation with Alva last night, and tried to think of Junior feeling jealous. Alva never paid much attention to his son, and it was obvious Junior strained to satisfy the old man.

It hit him suddenly that Junior just wanted attention from someone that was never going to give it. And Junior saw him, Richie, as a threat.

It made sense. He swallowed hard. He tried to think–tried to think of _something_ to distract the man from carrying out his intention.

Nothing came to mind. It felt that the realization he had for Junior and his father overwhelmed all else.

"I'm not smart," he said quickly, eyeing the gun. "It's an act, Junior. I–I'm not. I mean...I..._yeah_, I know how to read and write, but–I...I'm not half as intelligent as the rest of you, are."

Junior looked up from trying to keep his balance atop of his horse. He eyed the boy with heavy eyes, frowning. "Huh?"

"I mean...I can't–without you, I can't make it out here. I wouldn't know what to do," Richie said, a half confession. "If I were smart, don't you think–don't you think I would have left, by now? Found my own way out of here? _Escaped_?"

Something snapped in Junior's drunken mind, and he frowned. He gave visible thought about that, looking up at the sky. Then he scowled, aiming the rifle at him. The barrel wavered quite obviously as he struggled with the task. Richie wondered how fast he himself could move.

"I know what yer tryin' ta do," Junior mumbled from behind the gun. Richie vaguely registered that if he fired the weapon, the kick was going to knock the man right off of his horse. "Tryin'...tryin' ta talk me out of my set decision. Well...it ain't gonna happen...all set ta do this."

Richie swallowed, feeling his knees weaken. Slowly, he lowered himself into a crouch, Junior getting angry about it as he had to follow with his weapon. His horse also shuffled a bit, and while the younger Alva cursed it, Richie looked around himself. He grabbed a hold of a rock, testing the weight in his hand. He wasn't about to get shot by this man–maybe Junior wouldn't remember it after he'd passed out.

Well, Richie figured he'd help him along in that aspect.

Junior looked up just in time to see the underside of the rock, and the crack it made with his head was horrendous. It seemed to echo throughout the small canyon.

Junior dropped his rifle, blinking stupidly while Richie watched him with a horrified expression.

The impact the rock had made with the upper part of his forehead had torn skin–blood welled immediately and began to drip, surprising the man. Richie felt appalled in that he had sped up Junior's intentions on killing him–Junior was supposed to be knocked unconscious by that blow.

The man looked at him, scowling, then slid off his horse. Before he took another step, his legs gave out on him, and he hit the ground with nothing more than a grunt.  
>It was quiet all around him as Richie stared at the man, wondering if he had killed him. Wondering if Junior was just playing with his head.<p>

He glanced around himself, the horses shuffling casually nearby; there was no one around them for miles, and he was sure that no one had followed them.

He swallowed hard, looking back at the unconscious man, then heaved a sigh. Fiddling with the bandages around his forearms, he tried to think. If he somehow managed to load Junior onto the back of the horse and walked them both back to the house, what would Alva say?

Richie figured he'd be quite disgusted and annoyed at his son, and that would just encourage Junior's hate for him. _That_ option wasn't viable.

Still...what should he do?

**010101010110**

Junior awoke with a raging headache. His head was much too heavy for a human body to possess, and it throbbed in tempo with every beat of his heart.

He groaned aloud, then coughed, sputtering as he lifted his pounding head with superhuman strength. He spat dirt with a great amount of disgust, blinking heavily as he tried to remember where he was. It was quite dark, out. The air was cold.

Realizing he was outside, he tried to remember what it was he'd come outside for; the last thing he remembered was sitting in the living room. Other than that, it was a blank.

Movement was sluggish, and his head raged with incredible pain. He hadn't had a hangover like this one, before. This one overcame all else. He reached up to help his neck support his skull, then cursed aloud as fresh pain raced down his spine and spread throughout every cell around his face. When he withdrew his hand, he was surprised to see blood caked with dirt on his palm. He reached up to touch his head again, and realized he had a thick, swollen knot just above his left eyebrow.

Just as he was wondering how that had happened, his eyes dropped to the two horses standing nearby. Richie had the reins of both, and the boy was watching him warily. Looking wholly guilty and sullen.

Junior blinked, looking at him, wondering why he was out. Wondering what in the world they were doing outside, in the middle of no where.

He rose shakily to his feet, feeling immensely light-headed as he did so. The world spun dangerously for a few moments, and he was suddenly leaning over, vomiting into the dirt he was just laying upon. After several violent heaves, he rose again, spitting and wiping his mouth. Looking over at the horses, he realized they were bare of saddles, blankets–they were outfitted only with reins.

He looked at the boy again, and realized that he was being regarded cautiously.

Junior really had no idea what they were doing out here, and he was too embarrassed to ask. Frankly, he'd lose some face if he admitted such a thing.

He looked around himself–he had no idea where they were, how and why they were here... he straightened his posture and asked gruffly, "When the others comin' back?"

Richie stared at him for a few moments, rising cautiously from the dirt. He'd been holding onto the reins of the horses for hours–afraid that if he'd let go, they'd run off.

"Um...there are no others," he said slowly. His mind raced–he realized that Junior didn't remember anything. It would work in his favor. "You...you fell off your horse. You were–we were out there, and you were trying to teach me how to...how to hunt."

Junior blinked. He was? He tried to think of the reason _why_ he'd want to teach a whore to hunt, and couldn't think of any. He was quite befuddled. He himself didn't even know _how_ to hunt.

He cleared his throat. Hocked a loogie into the dirt, and tried to resume his tough stance. But it was hard doing so, considering that he had a busted head and no memory of how, what, where and why.

He cleared his throat again. Then looked around himself. "Wit' no guns?"

Richie bit his lip. "Um...you...you ended up bawling me out. Because...I'd...forgotten to pack one."

Junior speared him with a furious look. "We're out huntin', an' you don't have a _gun_?"

"...I'm sorry. It was all my fault. You were yelling at me when your horse tripped."

Junior could see that happening. But he just could not _fathom_ why he'd be teaching this _boy_ to hunt.

Richie was very thankful that he'd taken the time to hide the rifle behind some rocks before Junior woke up. Though, he thought it worked rather well in that Junior had no memory of why they were up here. Happiness shot through him, and he cautiously handed the reigns of Junior's horse to him.

"Can we go back, now?" he asked. "It's...it's a little creepy out here."

Junior took the reigns, and was terrified for a moment in that he had no idea in _how_ to get back. As he tried to think, he began to realize how quiet it was out here. There was absolutely no sound. No insects, no animals, no wind. The moon was set, providing some light, but the shadows were too dark and this area was foreign.

Chills swept through him.

He looked at the boy. "We–_you_ didn't bring no supplies?"

"Ah–it was supposed to be a couple of hours. We–_I_ forgot to bring things with us."

Junior frowned at him, then whacked him across the head. "Yer such a friggin' idiot! How on Earth did two people conceive of something like you? You're worthless! No wonder yer a whore!"

His horse suddenly pulled back, reigns slipping out of his hand as both animals began to fret noisily. Junior tried to recapture the reigns, but the animals quickly turned, and tore out of the area with mad whinnies and snorts.

Gaping, Junior and Richie stared after their quickly disappearing forms. Junior turned to inflict some abuse on the boy for his incompetence when something incredibly abnormal caught their ears. The two animals were suddenly giving squeals of pain–mixed with those sounds were the loud growls of something far larger. Shrieks of animalistic agony filled the night air, Richie clamping his hands over his ears. Dust flew, and growls escalated to that of victorious screams–an animal proudly announcing its success.

Junior gaped–he'd never heard an animal like that, before. Bears, wolves, mountain lions–this was none of those. Terror shot through him, but he couldn't act on it. Following those screams came the telltale knowledge of bones being broken, of flesh being rendered. More growls of unknown nature hit the air, and more dust flew.

He abruptly turned, and started walking away from the sounds. Richie, confused, followed closely, staring over his shoulder.

Junior was vaguely aware that they had to get to some sort of safety–but he had no idea on how to accomplish that. No weapons, no animals, no knowledge of _where they were_–he looked over to see Richie hurrying away from him, and he had the thought that the boy was running because they were being pursued. He whirled around, but those animal-things were still preoccupied with the horses, and there was nothing following them.

He looked over to see the boy hurrying back to him, carrying a rifle, and a very familiar ammo bag. He started to curse violently at him when those growls stopped. Taking both, he forgot about the tales Richie was springing on him, and checked the chamber. Loading the thing, he began walking faster, urged by the human instinct to _run_.

Snapping the chamber shut, he reached out, ensnaring blond locks within his fingers. "When we git someplace safe, you tell me the truth," he snarled, shoving him away. "No mo' of this lyin', you filthy shitbag. You unnerstand?"

"Yes, sir," Richie replied sullenly, sticking close to him, anyway.

The rocky canyon twisted narrowly for nearly a mile, the walls steep and high. It looked as if this were a common flood path for snow melting off the mountains. Their hurried footfalls echoed around them, and Junior was starting to panic. The mouth of the canyon reached them quickly, and Junior was grateful, expecting to see the town they were staying in, or perhaps other people.

But instead, his eyes fell upon the darkness of a small, shallow valley. The moon provided them with just enough light to see that it was moving–crowded thick with moving objects.

At first, Junior thought they were buffalo–he had half a mind on the money made from killing as many as he could; help the government wipe out the Indians' food source.

Then he realized that the moving herds weren't buffalo–they were _people_.

The smell hit him, then. The smell of multiple dead things, dead things that had been in the heat and sun. He slapped a hand over his nose with a sound of disgust, regarding the constant movement below with that of irritation and fear.

If the zombies were here...then where was their house? Where were the others?

He looked at Richie, who had both hands clamped over his nose and mouth, giving a sound of distress as he looked over the moving mass of zombies. Some were so close that Junior could see the detail of their clothing, the color of their rotting skin. He shook his head, turning, wanting to go back the way they came–but stopped short.

There, ambling slowly through the canyon walls, were three large creatures. They were bigger than bears, and moved quicker than horses. They had round, human-like heads, save for a bald plate of bone atop of their crowns. Their eyes glowed a demonic red, rimmed with black, sunken deep within their skulls. Their cheekbones jutted outward, skin sunken deep, forming hollows and ditches throughout the face, making them appear even more demonic. Their teeth were bare–it didn't look as if they had lips.

Huge shoulders rolled with every motion they made, and Junior could see that their skin was actually short, thick fur. Their front legs resembled those of a human's–but they were longer, their feet ending in fingers that extended with each step, the knees bending inward with each movement. Their back legs resembled those of a dog's–the hips were high, and a long, curving tail kept their balance.

Once the creatures caught sight of them, the leader stopped, raising its head.

Junior felt himself shake violently, lost in utter terror. Those faces...those faces were more memorable than anything, much more frightening than the creatures themselves. It seemed as if their eyes just _burned_ right into him. He clutched his rifle tightly, feeling every muscle lock stiff as he stared at them.

Next to him, Richie was just as terrified–stock still as his mind blanked of any thought, of any registering for a getaway. Those eyes seem to skim right over them, though, and that little observation made him aware. The three creatures continued to move, and though Richie was terrified and couldn't move anyway, he began to realize that their eyes were moving beyond them.

As if totally disregarding them, or...unable to see them.

"_Don't_..._move_..." he whispered, trying very hard not to move his lips. One of the creatures lifted its head once more, staring at him–he froze, not breathing, wondering with panic if Junior even heard him. Two of the creatures swept past them, bellowing ear-piercing shrieks of discovery upon seeing the zombies. The third lost interest in the pair of men and scrambled after them, echoing their shriek.

Richie wanted to laugh, bewildered in how he and Junior were disregarded so casually, but at the same time, he was in complete shock.

Almost a minute after the creatures had bypassed them, Junior slowly turned, staring out into the moving river of undead bodies. The monsters had swept through them, taking with them in their wake enraged zombies that attacked them viciously for bumping into them. They were attacking random zombies, tossing them around like a dog with a toy– not interested in meals.

But the strange thing–also the most terrifying–was that the creatures were unaffected. Their tough pelts prevented any injury.

Junior was in such a state of mind-numbed shock that he didn't realize he'd wet his jeans. His fingers had curled around his weapon so tightly that he couldn't feel them. There was much he couldn't feel–his eyes registered everything before him, but he couldn't prompt himself to move.

Richie turned to watch, taking in the sight of the monsters that were unaffected by zombie attacks. He felt his brow furrow, wondering what it was that kept the creatures safe from teeth, inhuman strength–thoughts of wonder and design hit him, and he wondered if those pelts were safe for human use.

If humans could wear animal fur...could they wear the fur of demons?

He watched the zombies–most of whom were not bumped or bothered continued walking. Any one nudged by some physical object–bumping into a tree, another zombie, those creatures–were subjected to immediate zombie rage.

Instead of fear, analytical thoughts started to race through his mind.

He reached up to capture Junior's attention, pulling at his sleeve. He wanted to point this out–maybe they could use the information rather than continuing their helplessness and fear with the arrival of these things.

Junior jumped upon contact, looking at him wildly.

Richie pointed out his findings, and it took him awhile–but Junior began to see what he did. And once he did, he began to lose that mind-numbing fear. He found himself gazing in puzzled wonder as the three creatures lazed within the moving river, unaffected by zombie attacks. He watched the zombie rages prompted by touches.

He looked back at the boy, and realized he wasn't so worthless after all.


	11. Runner's Vally Part 1

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**Chapter Ten:  
>Runner's Valley, Pt. I<strong>

By the time Richie confessed what really happened, they were out of that rocky canyon. Junior punched him just for lying to him, but he held himself back from any further abuse as he began to realize how the situation could change for the lot of them.

Perhaps no one else knew of the zombie's prompted rages; perhaps no one else knew of those creatures. If this boy could watch and learn, give them the information needed to overcome and defeat the attacks, people would _have_ to follow them. Ideas hit him, and it was all he could do to keep himself from racing to his father to share them. Alva would be entirely grateful for that–he could use it, himself.

Alva would acknowledge him, then. Would realize that Junior could be used more than a cronie.

"If we hurry, we kin git back there before daddy sends out a search party," he said, mainly to himself. Navigating along the cow trail that led down the hill, Junior was growing more and more excited as he thought of how Alva would respect him a little more. "They'll be lookin' for me, y'know? We need alla us to git along."

Richie had no doubt that he was right–he figured that Alva was very concerned for his son's disappearance. He hoped they sent someone, though. He'd be grateful for a ride. His blisters hadn't healed all the way, and his feet were killing him. Plus, with all the actions of the horse ride earlier, his arms were bothering him fiercely.

He wondered if they were getting infected...

They made their way down the hill, Richie directing them through the timberline, heading further down into the valley. He remembered the way they'd come, so he wasn't worried about that–he was just worried about any other creature attacking them suddenly from the darkness. It was so quiet, that it seemed to him the pair of them made as much noise as a pack of elephants would.

The moon provided just enough light to show them the way, and by the time they'd come into sight of the town, both of them were panting and tired. It was a solid flat leading back to the town, so nothing was in their way when they looked.

The house they'd settled in was the only one brightly lit in the surrounding darkness. It was at the very edge of town limits.

But as they looked...they couldn't see any lights.

Junior wasn't worried–he figured they were just laying low. Catching his breath, he began to hurry in that direction, inwardly cursing his jeans as they clung to his skin, making him reek of urine. Richie kept up close behind him, making him stumble a few times, but as they neared the house, Junior grew less and less concerned for his actions and more excited to share his plans with his father.

By the time they'd reached the house, the pair of them knew something was horribly wrong. The horses, the carts, the activity–they were _gone_.

The house was as abandoned as it had been before.

Junior gaped up at the silent, dark house before dropping his rife and ammo bag, racing for the door. Richie stared at the correl, where the horses had been tethered, bewildered. Had Alva completely panicked and gathered everyone and everything up and set out to find his son? Without much light, he couldn't tell which direction they had taken; but he knew the cowboys would have found their horses' trail and followed them. So...if they had...wouldn't they have run into them on the way back down?

He turned, fretting, picking up the rifle and ammo bag and hurried after Junior. The house seemed ominous and intensely creepy–he could hear the older man racing about, shouting for his cronies and for his father

Richie held tightly onto the rifle and began walking around, wandering aimlessly–until he realized that every window was broken. There were walls littered with gunshots, scorches of gunpowder.

They'd been _attacked_.

He thought hastily of the zombies in the valley further out, those creatures–he heard doors slamming, realizing that Junior was looking through every room.

Alva hadn't sent a search party, because they'd left the place in a haste. Under attack.

But by _what_?

He wandered into the kitchen, then throughout the rest of the first floor of the house. Occasionally, he'd pick up something that would be useful: a couple of unspent shells, a blanket. He found a couple of thick candles, someone's bottle of liquor, and a pack full of dry rations.

By the time Junior came back down, tromping in a morose way, Richie had gathered at least a good three days' supplies. He was seated on the rocking chair looking out the front window when Junior found him; looking intensely depressed.

For awhile, nobody said anything. Junior nursed the bottle of liquor while Richie kept watch with the rifle. He was curious as to where they'd gone, but he figured once daylight hit them, they'd look for their tracks.

Later, Junior set the bottle down, and looked over at his companion. Richie had fallen asleep in the chair, and the younger Alva gave a sneering look of contempt at the kid. The New York boy was wussy, completely clueless and annoying in the sense that Junior felt responsibility for him.

Junior didn't have that much patience, nor was he the sort to be kind and compassionate. His father had raised him to be strict, tough–to assert himself. And Junior took to that quite eagerly. He had asserted his control and dominance, and it got him the position that demanded respect.

Of course, he was blind to the way people thought of him–as long as he got his way, and as long as his father needed him, it didn't matter at all.

He rose from his chair, feeling unsteady and buzzed. He had to wonder where the others had gone–his father wouldn't just _leave_ him...would he? Would he just–?  
>But Junior didn't want to think that way. He was certain that they, while under attack, were looking for him. Searching for the pair of them because Alva wouldn't want to lose his boy. Nor his property. He knew Alva was concerned, for him. He knew his father wouldn't just...<em>leave<em> him.

He knew he had to look for them, to let them know they were all right. He needed to see the tracks in daylight, though. He couldn't find them at night. But the more time passed, the longer the space between them.

He chewed anxiously at his nails, looking over at the boy once more. Richie would just slow him down–he wasn't an experienced rider, and Junior didn't feel like smacking him around constantly while they searched.

He figured on leaving him–there was nothing around these parts, anyway. He figured the kid would be safe here. It would be a quick trip–then he remembered he hadn't any horse. He cursed quietly, not enjoying the thought of walking/running after the others. He'd be so...vulnerable. Exposed. And while he felt a little more confidence in what Richie had pointed out to him earlier, he just felt safer on the back of a horse. He anxiously worked his hand, looking over at the boy once more.

He'd noticed the slight limping, the sickly expression that was slowly working its way on that pale face.

Even if the creatures didn't do him in, Junior wondered what sort of sickness was drawing the kid down. He wondered about those bites.

Pacing in agitation, he tried to convince himself that looking for the others was a better choice than sticking around. Maybe they weren't going over the mountain, like Alva had wanted. Maybe they were heading back to the other town–he thought instantly of the animals he'd seen back there. The horses–the small herds of livestock. They hadn't stopped there because the lack of people had threatened Alva's comfort.

Drumming his fingertips atop of his lips, he shot another nervous look at Richie. If he left now...it was a day's ride, possibly a two-day hike...he should be back...

He didn't feel like arguing or convincing the boy of his plan. Junior simply packed all the supplies the kid had gathered, tossed it on his back, and took the rifle.

Determined, he hurried out of the house and headed in the direction of the closest town.

**010101010110**

Richie woke with a start; he didn't remember falling asleep. Sitting up, he saw that the morning light lit everything in the house–indeed, it was quite disastrous.

Everything was thrown about in a haste; the walls were marked with blood, gunshots and various fluids (he wasn't sure what), and the floors were colored, literally, with trails of innards and blood.

He rose slowly from his chair, unsure of where Junior was. For a few moments, he wondered if he'd left him, too.

Panic hit him suddenly, and he raced outside, calling for him. Hearing nothing, he raced back inside, shouting for him.

Mid-afternoon found Richie sitting glumly on the front porch. He was entirely alone–Junior was no where to be found. He really hadn't any idea where the man had gone; he wasn't sure if he should go search for him throughout the town, or stay put, where he himself was easily found.

He was unarmed–he figured Junior took the gun and ammo with him.

The day passed by slowly. Richie eventually left the house, wandering quietly up and down the streets, looking for some_one_ or some_thing_–maybe a horse. Maybe more supplies.

But he knew he and the others had combed the town thoroughly, picking up everything that they'd need for their small group. Still, it didn't hurt to walk into various houses, looking for things.

That night, he sat on the front porch, wrapped in a blanket–still waiting for Junior to come back. The town's eerie silence was getting to him–he wished for some sort of noise, some sort of chaos. The silence was intensely more maddening than the bloody chaos. It was the heavy expectation of waiting for _something_–of knowing that he was entirely alone that made him a little stir-crazy.

The next morning, he began searching for food. Since there wasn't any at the house, he began looking through town for something left behind. When he couldn't find anything, he searched the corrals for lizards; but he couldn't bring himself to actually try and eat one when he caught it. Just seeing the poor thing squirming in his hand made him intensely nauseous.

By late afternoon, he gave up.

He was growing more and more miserable; he'd gone two days without food, his feet were killing him, and his arms were getting infected.

He sat on the front porch, drizzling alcohol over the uglier bite marks along his forearms. A couple of them were puffy and smelled horridly. The smaller ones were achy to the touch. The stitches Teresa had used gave his skin a greenish color. Everything itched in a maddening sort of way that just wouldn't stop. He scratched around the wounds, trying to ease it all, and listened for anything out of place within the silent town.

That night, he took to the bed he'd lain in days before. Staring up at the night sky that was visible, he watched the stars twinkle neatly up in their black-blue blanket. He was so used to the silence, the agonizing pull of it, that he started to relax. After all, if sound entered the picture, it meant that those things had returned, or Junior and the others had come back.

He figured if he heard nothing, he'd be safe.

He thought of his parents–wondering if they were okay. He wondered if they thought of him; if they worried about him. Just thinking about them brought a huge tear throughout his stomach and chest. He quickly muffled any shouts that may threaten to leave him, clutching his pillow and blanket to his face, struggling to keep himself together. He didn't want to break apart; what if he did, and _things_ heard him? Came after him? He hadn't any weapons to defend himself.

That next morning, he was leaning over the horse's water trough, gulping in river water from the hand pump when he heard noises coming from the center of town.

Afraid he'd been heard, he quickly shut the pump off, straining to hear what was making those sounds.

Hearing the fearsome growls, snorts and random pattering of heavy weight, Richie decided that he'd better hide. He raced back to the house, and quietly ascended the porch–once inside, he shut and locked the door. From there, he raced up the stairs and headed toward Alva's previously held bedroom–it had a bigger window that overlooked the town. He crouched next to the window sill and peered out, looking for anything foreign and demonic.

He didn't have to wait very long.

Those riders came into sight, first. Skeletons dressed in the pelts of those creatures, they rode their dead animals through the streets–doing nothing more than staying atop of their mounts. Their jaws bounced, teeth clicking together with each movement in a sort of rhythmic sound with the clomping of hooves. It didn't look as if they were interested in their surroundings, riding just to get out of town.

Those creatures, the oddly shaped ones, were panting like dogs as they followed behind. Their tails left dragging marks through the dirt, their strange front feet making handprints with every step.

Richie watched the group, hardly daring to breathe–not wanting to move. They couldn't possibly notice him in the position he was hiding, but he wasn't going to take any chances. There were eight riders in all; six of those lumbering creatures. It was odd, though–the way their heads shifted, the way their mannerisms resembled those of dogs. They lifted their heads to sniff the air, or bothered one another with those strange sounds, their odd bodies emanating playful cheer as they bumped into each other. They were dog-like creatures, and he found some comfort in comparing them to animals that he was more familiar with.

Then, movement to his left caught his eye–something dark, something...in the air. _Floating_. Coasting with lazy intent from house to house, skimming over the windows. Richie wasn't sure what it was, but seeing that it was coming towards his hiding spot, he wasn't going to take any chances. With one last look at the floating blob, he scurried toward the massive bed and crawled underneath. By the time he was settled, that thing was floating over his window. It cast a very light shadow across the plain floor, and he watched the shadow dust along the windows, hairs rising atop of his arms and neck. He couldn't imagine what it was, but he began thinking of spectres.

It was gone as quickly as it appeared, its shadow drifting off the edge of the window's outline.

Richie was too scared to move–if that spectre had enough awareness to look for people through windows, what if it came back unexpectedly?

The dark of night found him still under the bed; his bladder was telling him he needed to relieve himself, but he was still too frightful of the things outside to want to leave. Hunger made his stomach rumble noisily–his various wounds were throbbing painfully. He felt exhausted and abandoned, with no real plan on what to do.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to ignore the persistence of his bladder and the constant rumble of his tummy when a very loud slamming noise caused his entire body to jump in startled action. More slamming commenced, and intense fear shot through him. It was coming from inside the house, and he couldn't suppress the whimpers of terror that escaped him at that moment.

He knew he had to get _out_–he had no luck against things that wanted to hurt him. His fingernails scraped against wood, and he pushed himself out from the bed, hearing the continuous slamming. He shot toward the window, searching hurriedly for the latch to open it. Once he found it, he shoved the window open, both sections slamming into the wood with loud clamps of sound.

The slamming stopped, and he peered out. He couldn't see anything down there, around the outside–the moon was finally hidden away, leaving the valley in intense darkness.

But there was more freedom down there–he gave a panicked shout upon hearing the clomping of movement up the stairway, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat, knowing that whatever _it_ was, _it_ was coming after him. Without much further thought, he threw himself outside, catching onto the window sill.

His feet hit the overhang of the back porch, and he dropped onto it with a nervous cry. Wood protested his weight, but held strong as he began moving toward the edge, hearing the clomping noise move closer to the window.

With much clumsy movement, he was over the edge, dangling briefly before hitting the dirt with a muffled sound. He quickly climbed onto his feet, intending to make a mad run down the street when a black blob sailed through the night air, and landed neatly in front of him.

He gave a startled shout as the shadow straightened with liquid-like movements, intense shadow against darkness giving him the impression of a very large man.

A very large man _with a gun_.

He turned and quickly ran the other way, hearing the massive roar of an inhuman creature that discovered its prey. He couldn't help but scream as he rounded the outhouse and ran madly for anything that could hide him.

The thing was quick–it ran after him with lengthening strides, screaming up a storm; words that were indistinguishable. Richie didn't bother looking back–he just ran in panicked fashion for the nearest house.

The thing behind him stopped its run, and began firing at him.

Shouting again, Richie managed to avoid being hit, veering sharply to the right–he used the corner of the house to steer him along the wall, and he ran along the length, hearing the thing clomp after him, shouting with continued success.

Several more shots propelled him faster, and he rounded the corner of the house, stumbling into a small alley that would take him back onto the main street. The darkness made it hard for him to see where he was going–he was using maddened instinct to find escape. He started to turn a hard left when an incredible punch knocked his left leg out from under him. It managed to take his breath and any sense of coherent understanding away from him as well.

He slammed hard into the support post of the house's porch railing, and that was all he remembered.

**010101010110**

His head was ringing so loudly that it prompted him awake. Discomfort was making his stomach severely unsettled, and his skin felt extremely hot, radiating fiercely throughout every bone and muscle. The world swirled and swayed, and as he grew conscious, the pain throbbed with a heavy ache that kept in tempo with his heartbeat.

Everything hurt–and everything burned with the same intensity.

Lack of energy kept him from moving very much, settled uncomfortably against the wooden post that he found himself sitting against. Blinking heavy eyelids, he realized that he wasn't supposed to be that way. He'd _fallen_ against it–not sat against it. Someone must have moved him... he thought of that thing, that shadow-man, and wondered if it had been _it_ that moved him. But why? For what purpose?

His head throbbed, and his hands slowly reached up to hold onto it, to keep it from slipping from his neck. His leg was the most pained limb out of them all–remembering all that had happened, realizing he'd been shot, he paused in touching his head to look down at his leg. The telltale bloodstain, the fact that an ugly, gaping hole stared up at him told him that it had not been a dream. He reached down for it, holding the very outer edges, staring in disbelief at the wound.

It burned, throbbed, ached–it made him dizzy. As he pressed around it, blood oozed sullenly to the surface; it spilt around the edges of his torn jeans, darkening the color already set around it. Just touching it sent pain branches up his hip and down his knee. He felt it in the pit of his belly.

Gritting his teeth, he leant back against the post, staring ahead of him. _Now_ what?

Did he just bleed to death, here? Wait for those things to come back and finish him off?

He didn't have the energy to get up. Looking back down at the wound, he became aware of a stink that made his stomach tie in sudden knots. He thought of how Junior smelt coming off the mountain and sighed with trembling shame in that he'd peed his jeans as well.

Intense mortification and despair made him draw a deep breath in, ready to bawl–until he heard Junior's voice in his mind, screaming at him for crying like a girl.  
>Immediately, he quelled the urge, and focused on his leg, instead. It seemed that with every movement, it was agony. He realized he couldn't just sit there, though.<p>

What if those animals came back?

It was nearing afternoon–he could tell from the shadows that drifted over the empty streets, from the height of the sun and the warmth that kept him from shivering.

It was cooler in the valley–if they were still in Alva's town, it would have been unbearably warm and uncomfortable.

The silence was just as thick and interminable as it was before.

He listened to the slow throb of his heartbeat, and stared at the emptiness before him. He wondered when he'd die; wanted to hate Junior for leaving him. His fingers were sticky when he pulled them from his leg, and he looked down to watch his own blood dry on his palms.

He hadn't seen so much of his blood, before. He'd had scrapes and the occasional childhood mishap here and there, but this was the real deal–this was his _blood_. Draining out from a bullet hole. Draining from bitemarks made by a possessed woman. Blood from men raping him, from being lashed, punched–he hadn't ever imagined such horrors, before. But now that he was faced with it...it was a rather odd color. Why was blood _red_? Why not green? Or black? Or–?

He realized he was thinking irrationally, and clumsily unbuttoned his shirt, tearing off his sleeve, and ripping that apart to wrap above the wound–to stop the blood flow. His fingers were feeling tingly, but he ignored that, wrapping hastily and surely. He ripped his other sleeve off and yanked at his bandanna, pressing that over the wound and tying the material of his sleeve over it.

Exhaling heavily, he studied his work, wondering how in the world he was going to get up and move to doctor himself when he became aware of sounds.

He lifted his head, hearing the faint clomp of sound coming from somewhere behind him. Panic assailed him with intense reaction, and he stilled for a moment, pressed hard against the support post. There were riders; multiple riders. He caught his breath before he began to hyperventilate, thinking of the skeletons with pelts. He could never escape those. And he'd had no idea how fast those dog-creatures were.

What if there were more men with guns? Shadow men?

Or what if it were the others? Junior and the others?

Hope flared briefly, and he struggled to move. But pulling in his leg made blood spill with movement, and intense dizziness and nausea to hit him. He tried peering around the support post, but he couldn't do so without completely moving his body. It _hurt_, making everything intensely heated and heavy when he did.

He struggled to stay conscious when a dark grey began clouding his vision, a heavy ringing overcrowding any other noise. His stomach seized, and every limb suddenly felt heavier than before. He breathed slowly, carefully, feeling the edges of his stomach push at his throat. He started to move, to look around the post when he lost control of his entire body, and he hit the dirt without realizing he'd fallen unconscious.

**010101010110**

The town was empty when they arrived. It was void of any bodies, of any indication that they had been attacked, recently. Judging from the lack of inactivity and from the lack of tracks, Kangorr figured they were much too late.

Shifting his hat atop of his head, he frowned as Shiv headed before them, talking rapidly in Chinese as he gestured about. Ebon shook his head sullenly, his horse looking as annoyed as he as they came to a stop.

"I hate when he talks like that," he muttered. "Don't know a word he's sayin'. Could be cursin' me, or some shit."

"Heh." Hotstreak looked around himself, guiding Charger forward. The horse, sensing that his master's mood was a little more enlightened, snorted and reared in an effort to toss him.

The four of them tied their horses' reins to the post outside of the only store, and headed in to look for supplies. It was obvious, from the moment they entered, that the place had already been depleted of anything useful.

With a sigh, Kangorr headed back out. "Let's look at some of the houses. Sometimes, not everythin's looked at."

They split up, and took their time in looking throughout every available residence, tent and cart. Finding what little had been left behind, they began to drift together, finally deciding to head out of town.

Kangorr pointed up at the mountain range. "Over that valley there, is the state line. We head out that way. We pretty much covered every large settlement, here. Word is, that's gold rush spot."

"Mm, _gold_," Shiv murmured, as if it were an edible food source.

Hotstreak rubbed at his face–he hadn't shaved in days, and the scruff of hair was taking over what he'd kept clean-shaven. He figured that with a new life, came a new look. He was thinking of growing in a mustache, maybe a beard...with all this zombie invasion, no one would be looking for him, anyway. But it never hurt to have a different appearance.

As they rode on, he looked around the town. He heard Kangorr pointing out recent track marks of Hounds and Mad Men, but had already seen them. The houses were all in such nice states that it looked as if everyone had left in an according manner–not the panic and haste that he was used to seeing. He frowned, ushering Charger forward when Shiv trailed off with a contemplative string of sounds that no one understood.

Ebon stopped as well, Kangorr's mind on other things, not paying attention to them.

"Aw," Shiv cooed. "This one weren't fast enough."

"He dead?" Ebon asked, picking at his teeth. Hotstreak looked back with a bored expression, Kangorr continuing on his way out of town.

"Think so. He here awhile."

Hotstreak saw that Shiv was looking over a body lying near a house, looking as if he'd been sitting against the post. He gave a noncommital sound, Charger's tail whipping the air. "Well, git rid of it," he said, giving a bored sigh. "Let's just go."

Shiv slid off his horse, folding his arms behind his back and peering close. He was frowning when he looked up. "Fresh!" he announced. Glancing around, he turned his back. "Maybe more survivors?"

"'Fresh'?" Ebon questioned. "As in freshly _dead_? Or...?"

"No. _Fresh_," Shiv repeated, giving him a puzzled look.

"..._What's_ 'fresh'?" Ebon repeated, throwing his arms out in exasperation. "_What_ is?"

"This kid! _Fresh_!"

"_WHAT'S FRESH_?"

Hotstreak rolled his eyes, nudging Charger over. While the two yelled at each other, he dismounted, pulling out his pickaxe. He walked over, looking over the body with curious assessment. It was obvious that the kid was going to die, anyway. He could see the blood soaked jeans as he neared, and saw the lack of substance the kid had on his frame. He wondered if he were one of the former residents of the town–standing over him, he frowned at the hasty dressing over a hidden wound.

The kid was lying in an awkward position–as if he'd been sitting, and then just tilted over, face planting into the dirt, arms at his sides.

Shiv stopped arguing with Ebon to join him, tilting his head curiously. He used the toe of his shoe to nudge the kid's head.

"Smells fresh," he announced.

Hotstreak shrugged, feeling a little bad. He could smell the dried urine, the blood–it made him a little wary, in that the kid was still alive, had just died, or just on the throes of dying. He looked around, seeing footprints off to the right, dried blood in the dirt. It looked as if the kid were shot a few feet away, and he'd hit the house. He wondered if he'd broken his neck, or some other action did him in.

He took in the faded green shirt, the thin arms, and faded jeans, the worn boots. The kid was on the short side, gangly, with wrapped forearms. He wondered what had happened to cause that wrapping.

Apparently, Shiv was curious, too. He crouched, using one of his short swords to slice at the delicate wrapping.

He whistled. "Zombie bites!" he announced, shaking his head, slicing through the green material over his leg, studying the leg wound. "No good, anyway."

Ebon adjusted his hat. "Just kill the bastard. Put 'im outta his misery. Prolly turn anyway, man. Lookit them bites. Just get ridda him."

"He's alive?" Hotstreak asked him skeptically. What did vampires _do_?

"Yeah. Blood's still fresh." Ebon sniffed, then licked his lips. But he eyed the bitemarks with disgust. He shuddered.

Shiv gave a small squeal as he jumped away. "But I feel weird! What if he weren't even _bad_?"

"There's nothin' here," Kangorr called with some annoyance, finally noticing that he'd been riding alone. "Let's keep rollin'. Wait...whatcha'll lookin' at?"

"A dead body...ew...it lives..." Shiv murmured, poking at one thin shoulder. The three watched the slight jerk of the limb in reaction to the pain, heard the slight grunt.

"He's still alive," Hotstreak pointed out dumbly.

"Well...kill 'im anyway. He prolly won't live long, anyway. We can't take care'ah him. Just shoot him. He'll prolly thank ya," Kangorr grumbled. Hotstreak looked back at him, then off to the side, wondering when this incident had happened.

"...Do ya think he heard us?" Ebon wondered aloud.

There were a couple of stifled chuckles.

"Just shoot him. Stop yer gawkin'."

"_You_ do it. He might haunt me, later."

"Like you believe in that."

"No, I'm serious!"

"...Are you speakin' English? Cuz–"

"Go to Hell. You understand that?"

"There's no such thing as 'Herr'. Go to Herr?"

"...Fuck you."

"Just think of this, boys–what if, further down the road, this boy's the one killin' ya cuz ya'll didn't want to kill him? Eh? Think o' it." Kangorr nodded seriously, frowning at them as he picked out his canteen from his saddle bag.

"...You put it that way..."

Ebon and Hotstreak looked at each other, thinking about that as Shiv shrugged. He pulled out one of his swords, the metal glistening in the late afternoon sun. He handled the weight carefully.

"I think this needs sharpening," he said, examining the blade. "I'll end up hacking him. Teeny, tiny bits!"

Ebon yawned tiredly. "Just do it. Good for nothin' railroad worker."

Shiv whirled on him sharply. "You shut up. "

Hotstreak sighed as Shiv lunged at Ebon, who quickly withdrew one of his scythes, deflecting the sword that threatened to chop off his head. The pair moved away from the body, so he figured he may as well as do the honors. Swinging the pickaxe lazily at his side, he looked back down at the kid.

More than likely, that gunshot wound had been the kid's undoing. Ghouls were infamous for shooting their victims in disabling places, making them easier for Hounds to hunt. They were evil that way–torturing their victims before doing them in, or allowing someone else the honors. Kangorr had mentioned that Ghouls were the 'bad' men of the West, those that died rightfully because of all their wrong doings. With all their maliciousness, Hotstreak had agreed with them.

With a heavy sigh, he looked over the multiple bite marks along the forearms–it was an ugly mess. If the kid hadn't died of blood loss, he would have died of infection, anyway. He was covered in dust, blood–features, hair, clothing and skin were covered in it. It was as if someone had rolled him around in dust before propping him against the post.

He crouched, reaching out to grip a handful of blond hair. He figured he'd give it a shot–assure himself that this wasn't the boy. It was habit to do so, lately, and Kangorr had questioned him about it.

Lifting the head, Hotstreak peered at the profile, and felt a streak of recognizance hit him. He felt that dawning sensation of realization as he took in the rounded chin, the dark eyebrows. He was so startled that he dropped his head abruptly.

"Huh? Who's 'him'?" Shiv asked, turning away from Ebon.

Hotstreak realized he must've spoken aloud, embarrassed for the sudden attention the others were giving him. He couldn't believe this stroke of luck! Finding the boy–the odds were so _impossible_–and yet, here he was...in a town miles away, amidst chaos–!

Kangorr was there, a concerned frown on his face as Hotstreak pushed his pickaxe aside and pulled Richie into a sitting position against the post.

"This the one you been lookin' for?" Kangorr questioned, looking at the boy again. He gave a shake of his head. "He ain't gonna make it, Red. He gonna turn, soon. Them zombie bites, they–!"

"Just–! _Just_–!" Hotstreak didn't know what to do. He rose, feeling his head whirl, staring at the unconscious boy. It hit him, then–all this time, he'd been wondering and thinking about the boy, and now that he found him..._now_ what?

Shiv sheathed his sword, giving him a frown, then the boy. "He family?" he questioned. "You don't look related."

"No...no, we ain't."

"Part of your...your other world?"

"Why you haveta know all this?" Ebon asked Shiv in disgust.

"_I wanna know_!"

"You don't need ta know!"

"I just wanna–!"

Hotstreak waved his hands about to get their attention. "Just...just _go_! I'll...I'll figger this out. Jus'...just go."

The three of them looked at him in disbelief.

"Huh? Wha–you wanna _stay_?" Kangorr asked, his voice hitching just a bit with his shock. He gestured angrily at the kid. "He ain't gonna live very long! He been bit–he's gonna die, anyway!"

Hotstreak threw him an annoyed expression, shaking his head. "No, just–I'll just catch up. I'll–I need to–"

Kangorr got it. "Ah. Ya just wanna make peace? Fine. Let's go, boys. We got us a long road ahead of us."

"You gonna stay here by self?" Shiv asked. He tossed a cautious glance around himself. "I don't know, it's tiny bit scary 'round here..."

Hotstreak shrugged again, staring quietly at the boy, a little numb. He himself wasn't sure what he was going to do, but...he had been thinking about him for so much...almost every moment...he had to do _something_.

He watched the others reluctantly leave, Kangorr announcing that they'd be over the mountain. For a moment, the man hesitated, giving his childhood friend a close look. Hotstreak had to look away, knowing what he was thinking–feeling a little guilty and shamed for it. Kangor was wondering if he were backing out, again.

Shying off from responsibility.

Hotstreak really didn't know _what_ he was doing.

He watched them ride away, Charger looking a little annoyed in that they were alone, once more. His horse whinnied in protest after the others, then seemed to shoot him a dirty look.

Hotstreak kicked dirt at him before turning, looking down at the unconscious kid.

He didn't know what to do with him.


	12. Runner's Vally Part 2

Warnings: **OOC**, violence, profanity, mature themes!

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!**

**Chapter Eleven:  
>Runner's Valley, Pt. II<br>**

He'd treated his own wounds, before–his and Blayne's. The pair of them had grown accustomed to the sight of their own blood, their brutal wounds; he'd learned to stitch, to cauterize, to fight off infections. So when it came to doctoring the boy, Hotstreak knew he was going to be successful at it.

He found a house that didn't have very many windows; that was built with stone and concrete rather than wood. Zombies, Mad Men and Ghouls knew how to burn things down when they had the opportunity, and lack of windows made it hard for them to attack.

The house was that of a doctor's–valuable and useful for his purposes. The medical supplies, as advanced as they could be in this town sprung by gold rushers, were useful.

So, firstly, he treated the infections–those of the boy's arms, and a couple on his back. Those whip wounds hadn't healed correctly, and as he worked, he remembered how the boy had screamed that day. Infection was moving through his body, and Hotstreak wondered how it was he kept going. How he hadn't fallen to sickness, yet.

He didn't know why he was treating him, actually. Working in numb disbelief on a complete stranger; a boy stranger that dominated his thoughts from the moment he met him. But he couldn't deny his fascination. He'd already accepted it.

The town was intensely silent–he figured it would be. It was inhabited by various dark things alike. Though Kangorr was clueless as to why this was a hotspot, it wasn't of their main concern. Kangorr was eager to find Caine and this 'him' that had been mentioned so many times; if they could get to them, they could wipe out the army. Restore the world, so to speak.

He took care of the boy, finding it easier to do this than focus in on the recent horrors of his life. Even as he still thought of the Hawkins, the overwhelming guilt of their loss, he just needed something else to distract him. And this boy did it–Hotstreak was distracted by him, but more than intensely depressed that it wouldn't last very long.

This boy would turn into a zombie, soon. He was dreading that aspect, but at the same time–what to do? What would he say before then? Do? _Think_? Now that the boy was here, a real physical entity in his hands, _now_ what?

Hotstreak was just at a loss of that next step. He worked uncomfortably at removing the bullet; at stitching. He cleansed the caked blood, urine and dirt from him, then opened the single window in the room, to allow the flies in. When it was obvious that the boy had a fever from the various infections, Hotstreak was there to administer basic care–not pushing himself for better, as he was certain the boy was going to turn, anyway.

Everything was half-hearted in a way that kept him busy, his fingers working; and from his thoughts to consume him completely.

He had to keep moving–keep everything at bay, keep them from eating him up inside. If he paused for a moment, to allow all the horrors and trauma in, then he would be slowed. Destroyed.

The second afternoon of his 'care', the boy woke in a sluggish haze, fever inhibiting his thoughts. Hotstreak was scared for a moment, wondering if he were recognized when those amber eyes fell on him. But the boy had asked for his 'da', whining that his leg hurt. Hotstreak felt it weird that this kid was calling him 'da'. It made him think of his kids with Maria, and gave him an unexpected twist in his gut.

He gave him some cool water; attempted to feed him broth flavored with bacon, but was rewarded with vomit. He didn't bother with those measures again, not wanting to be the maid to clean things up. Once was enough. Virgil would have been better at this. He had a lot more human compassion than Hotstreak had.

While the boy slept, Hotstreak searched the town for any supplies, and began tracking the creatures that roamed in and out of the area. He was familiar with all of them–he was no longer surprised by their appearances, their actions; he and Kangorr had learned that their 'behavior' tended to be quite predictable once they were relaxed. It appeared that the creatures were moving their way north–slowly but surely.

Every time he returned to the house, he kept expecting the zombie-boy to be standing there. And every time, he was denied that expectation. He was starting to wonder if the boy was even going to turn.

Then, the fifth day, Hotstreak found himself wakening suddenly–he blinked away the sleepy remains of a vivid dream he'd had about the train robbery. Seeing Aron piss his pants, hearing the baby mewl. He was sitting in a chair at the back corner of the room, rifle slung over his lap when he heard the whispering of spectres–if they weren't shrieking or throwing things, they hadn't discovered them, yet.

He sat still, listening to the whispers, hearing the random nonsense of people that had long passed–they were sweeping through the area, passing by the house a few times, rattling the single window. He had to wonder if his footprints, if Charger–roaming in a field a couple of miles out–had been discovered. If they had...the Hounds would have sniffed them out, by now. Ghouls would have launched an attack–Mad Men would be cackling up a storm.

He relaxed, looking over at the bed with the sleeping boy. He glanced over the pale features, noting the slight grayishness in skin-tone, the slight rise and fall of a bony chest. He ran his fingers over his stubbled cheeks and chin, scraping at the mustache over his upper lip. It should be full and healthy in a few more weeks...the boy was still so young that he hadn't had very much hair in the areas that mattered. His face was still baby-smooth, soft to the touch. Reminding Hotstreak of a girl.

He then touched his hair, fingering through the uneven dark red strands; it was messy, limp and reeked of sweat and musk. He pulled his hat off and studied the sweat-stained material, wrinkling his nose at the smell that wafted from it.

He looked back over at the boy, remembering the lavender scent that he had on him that night; soft, yet strong enough to be noticed. He wondered if the boy could somehow keep smelling that way when clean, but Hotstreak had been close enough to know that he didn't. He smelled just as strongly as he did, going without a bath.

He figured he'd clean them both sometime soon–after the activity outside died down. Maybe he'd find something lavender scented...scent the water with it, so that when he washed him, the boy would smell that same way.

He looked back over at him, looking over soft pink lips, over dark lashes. He felt an uncomfortable heat fill his lower belly, and he looked away quickly, shifting. He recognized lust; it was an easy emotion to distinguish, and quite easy to satisfy. But to have it applied to some strange _boy_...he knew that such thoughts weren't at all strange. After all, he'd traveled a lot throughout his years, and he'd seen his share of lust satisfied in various areas. If a man wanted another, then...there were ways of getting that sort of satisfaction.

Sometimes, people were attracted to the same sex; how it was perceived was something of an entirely different matter. How it was satisfied was something of an entirely different manner.

He looked over at the boy again, feeling uncomfortably needy; the kid was a whore. He was used to satisfying men's needs and wants. It wasn't as if he were...well...a _virgin_, or the sort. Besides, the kid knew what he was doing when he'd coerced Hotstreak to his room, that night. Whatever had been done, had been done.

Maybe...maybe before he turned into a zombie–

He frowned at the direction of his thoughts, shaking his head. He'd gone too long without a woman, was all. All this testosterone had him worked into a state that required such satisfaction. And since there were no women...just this male whore...and it would be free. No Alva to pay.

He could just hear Sharon screaming herself hoarse at him; for thinking so casually in that aspect, for making such a subject _okay_. It was funny–the Hawkins' were really a sheltered bunch. Why, if they knew a _third_ of his thoughts...he knew Robert would have never taken him in.

Sometimes, humans turned out to be less than one expected.

**010101010110**

Junior cursed as he eyed the road, clutching his rifle anxiously. The four horses he had tethered nearby were giving soft whinnies, their nostrils flaring at they caught the scent of zombies. The road was caked with the traveling monstrosities, but he didn't catch any of those strange creatures he'd run into a few times. He was entirely anxious, needing to get back to Runner's Valley, to get to the chit. He hadn't run into any living humans along his travels, and due to creatures and zombies, he'd been hindered from a hasty return. All this activity bewildered him–for the West, having all this activity from everyone that had been killed or had been lying in the dirt was entirely confusing for him. He'd gotten over his fear of the beasts and the undead, but that anxiety hadn't calmed any.

He rose from his hiding spot behind some rocks, and hurried over to the horses. Instead of taking the main road back to Runner's Valley, he was heading over the mountain–making the trip longer than it should be. He hoped that the boy was still alive–he hadn't left any supplies. He hadn't been thinking clearly when he'd gathered his things and left.

Grimacing, he leapt atop the back of a well used mare, her protesting whinny catching the attention of a couple of zombies, whom answered in their guttural cries. Junior shot them an annoyed look, and had the horses moving. The ride back was silent for him–he was filled with constant anxiety and uncertainty. He hadn't traveled alone, before. Being on his own was something entirely new. In a way, it made him rethink all that he'd done to others in the past. Those crying for their homes, for someone familiar–he wouldn't admit aloud that he now understood the way they felt.

That night, he was cleaning out a tin can of meat and beans, chewing quickly as his eyes scanned the darkness around him. He hadn't bothered with a campfire, and chose instead to layer on clothing and wrap a blanket around his shoulders. The horses were standing nearby, behaving in a manner similar to his–overly nervous and twitchy.

The other town hadn't been touched, surprisingly. Junior was able to find a few valuable things, and these animals. He'd loaded them all with food, weapon and other things that he thought they could use.

Later on, he listened to the odd screams that rang throughout the valley. They were amplified by the space and the area; they made the hairs on the back of his neck and arms rise, and the horses grew even more agitated. It was as if they were all having a pow-wow down there. There wasn't anything distinguishable by human standards. Shivering, he pulled his blanket close, fingers tight around the barrel of his rifle.

The next morning, he was pushing the horses into a dead run across a flat, hoping that the kid was still alive. Junior needed that one-uppance against his father. Alva had left him, and Junior was steaming about it. But that only drove him to improve his situation. He would use that boy...he would gather up followers, helpless survivors–have them depend on _him_. He'd build a bigger, better town. He'd exceed his father's power that way.

Just the thought of seeing that old man's face looking at him with helpless regard made him grin.

The zombies were headed off in a different direction. They weren't headed for the Valley. He was able to hit the main road again, the horses growing tired with the effort. He had to rest them, or face dragging along dead animals.

He took them off to the side, heading for the river, looking around himself suspiciously. The valley was a flat, wide-open space, with several smaller roads branching off the first main. Some led into the Eastern mountains nearby, and the others led off further into the West. The silence down this way was just as interminable as Runner's Valley. The mountain tops seemed to be foaming fog, a light mist curling toward the ground. He could smell moisture in the air, and squinted as he judged the weight and speed of an incoming storm.

As the horses drank, Junior scanned the area for anything out of place. He was seated atop a bunch of rocks when he heard the hard pounding of horse's hooves against dirt. Startled, he looked up, seeing that there were riders coming his way. For a moment, he thought for sure that it was part of his party–they had been searching for them. Rising, he hailed them noisily, ready to rip into the cronie that reached him first. He'd give them a piece of his mind–

Then he realized that he recognized none of the riders. But they veered in his direction; human riders that were tired and exhausted, but obviously determined to head on their way.

Junior frowned as they neared, and anxiously eyed his horses, his supplies. A little fearful that they'd try to take them from him for their own needs.

The first rider seemed to recognize him, his face blooming with realization. He was a black man, younger than him–it looked as if he'd been riding non-stop for a few days.

"Yer alive!" was his first greeting, Junior frowning because he didn't know the man. "That's a surprise..."

"We know each other?" Junior asked sullenly, not relaxing his guard.

"No, not really. My friend an' I used ta patronize yer place back in th' day," Virgil Hawkins confessed, grabbing his bandanna to wipe his forehead, sweeping his hat aside. Adam and the others rested as well, their tired horses moving toward the stream. "That's who I'm lookin' for."

"Yer lookin' for someone?"

"Yeah. 'Bout over six feet, over two hundred–he's got red hair, and–"

"Never seen anybody like that," Junior muttered, recalling no one of that description lately.

"He's got a big stallion–creamish, with black socks?"

Junior shook his head again, and looked back at the rider. "You ain't, by any chance, seen my father?"

"No. You lost him, too?"

"Yeah. Just me an' another one, now. But I left him back over the hill."

"In Runner's Valley? We were headed that way," Virgil said, replacing his hat with a tired frown. "I've been tracking my friend for awhile...they say he might be there. Wanna ride wit' us? Safety in numbers..."

The idea had merit, and they were going the same way. But Junior licked his dry lips thoughtfully, eyes running over his tired horses. He was wary that these men were going to trick him, and he'd end up shot and/or dead somewhere up the road. But then again...if they were good men...

He grit his teeth and nodded. "I'll go wit' ya."

"Then let's git goin'. Run the horses slowly, 'fore they get sick."

Junior just hoped that it all wasn't a trick.

**010101010110**

The slamming had him startling. Jerking in reflexive action, Richie's eyes shot open. His breath caught in his throat, and instant images of shadow men came to mind. But just as he'd registered the noise, the intensity of pain seemed to overwhelm all fright. For a moment, he couldn't breathe as branches of throbbing pain shot up his leg. Then, when he sucked in breath, intending to move to hide, a large smelly palm covered his mouth.

That made him much more panicked, stiffening with paralyzed fright as the slamming continued, rattling the walls and various objects within the room. It was too dark to see–night had fallen, he was growing aware that he was inside a house, in a bed–his bad vision kept him from seeing anything clearly; but that thing was around. Looking for him.

A sound of outrage, neither human or animal, sounded above the pounding. The slamming stopped abruptly, doors opening and closing. Shrieks of unknown nature sounded, filling the small town.

Richie promptly stopped breathing, hands going up to his ears to block out the horrid noises. He forgot about the palm over his mouth, the mystery of being in a house; those sounds were like nails upon chalkboard. Various howls of ghostly nature, screams of agonized human torture; high-pitched shrieks ripped from the throats of women–the noises continued for a good five minutes, then began to dwindle.

When they finally died away, the silence was as equally disturbing.

He slowed and caught his breath, registering the feel of human skin against his; wondering bewilderedly if it were Junior. It was startling–he wanted to lash out at Junior for leaving him. He pushed the palm off his mouth, questions filling his mind, but holding himself back for fear of Junior lashing out at him for whatever reason.

He listened to the other person's–man's–breathing. Realized fully that he himself was undressed, with only a light sheet covering him. Before more bewilderment could assail him, he felt roughened fingertips roving over his forearms.

"When were you bit?"

There was some familiarity to that whispered voice, but Richie couldn't place it. He had a sudden, ominous feeling–and a rush of recognizance in that he'd heard this voice, before. He swallowed hard, growing aware to how hot he felt–his skin felt a little damp. He focused on the question.

"Um...maybe...three days ago?" He was too scared to speak loudly–his whisper was barely heard. He didn't want the other to talk, for fear of bringing those _things_ in this direction.

"Zombie?"

"I...I don't think so. She was...Alva said she was 'possessed'. But... I don't understand the meaning–" Richie cut himself off when he felt the shift of weight on the bed. The rustle of clothing. He wished he could see! "Junior?"

"No."

His mouth was covered, harshly, and before Richie could realize that it was a kiss, he could feel the sheet being pulled from his body. Horror filled him then, his skin crawling as roughened hands began touching him. Stroking over his hips, pushing apart his legs–he reached up to push at the heavy male, growing utterly horrified that he was going to be used at a time like this. When he was injured, when they were obviously not alone–! But his arms, his body felt wholly weak; lack of food, loss of energy; his efforts were fruitless, and he gave a strangled cry when he felt the familiar, horrible invasion into his body.

Listening to the heavy breathing above him, and his own short breath, Richie numbly wondered if there were nice human beings out there.

He was finally released, legs gently set down. He wanted to curl up into a ball, but he was in too much agony to shift his leg that way. He sucked in a long breath, hearing it shake as more branches of pain flitted up his spine, his ass feeling horribly raw and used.

"Sorry," came the gruff apology. "Just...y'know...yer a whore. I hadda lotta tension."

The unfairness of that comment made Richie's skin redden with immense fury. But he couldn't release it–after all, what could he do? He glared angrily up at the darkness above him, feeling his eyes burn with mortified and pained tears. Shifts of movement told him that the other man was getting dressed. He could hear the jangle of metal, the creaks of leather. Sucking his lower lip into his mouth, he bit it with burning hate and helplessness, his hands lifting to search for the sheet that had covered him earlier.

He heard the dripping of water, and winced at the feeling of a wet cloth against his skin, his legs spread apart so that whomever used him could clean him. Feeling immensely resentful, he lifted his good leg and kicked at the man.

His ankle was caught with the second kick, and with a rising sound of fury in his throat, he struggled to get loose. His attacker grew annoyed with his actions, and that made Richie still immediately, entire body cringing as he waited to be hit. He gave a surprised sound as he was shoved onto his stomach. He was growing more agitated, pained by every action as he lifted his head from the pillow that threatened to suffocate him. But he kept himself from fighting back, struggling to keep himself from crying, knowing that it bothered the men he had serviced. It wasn't very manly, anyway–he could just hear Junior growling at him for that.

His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly as he felt the clothed weight of the man settle against him. Breathing strongly, struggling to keep all his emotions and actions in check, he stared off into the darkness, unsure of what this man was going to do with him.

After a minutes of silence, after he'd relaxed slightly with settling with the inevitable, he felt the man shift again; drawing up the light sheet to tuck gently around him.

"How's yer leg?"

He knew that voice–he knew he'd heard it, somewhere. Richie hated the concern in that tone, the thought–how could this man just use him and pretend to be concerned for him? He grit his teeth, but he didn't answer. He merely cringed when he felt those roughened hands on his body, smoothing over the blanket to gently touch the wound over his left leg. He winced, cringing again at the movement as pressure was applied upon the examination.

"I cleaned it. I took the bullet out. Dunno how long you were there, but...it'd been three days since I found ya."

Richie stilled, listening to that Southern-tinged voice. A pout drew his features, sullenly wondering if he should thank this man for such actions.

"_Sorry_."

Richie wondered if he were better off sitting outside with the creatures than being 'safe' with this man. Who knew what was going to happen, next? How long was this man planning on keeping him? He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes–wanting to be far, far away...with his parents, somewhere safe.

**010101010110**

He awoke, blinking heavily. He didn't feel so good. Sluggishly, he turned his head, noting that the room was filled with daylight–he didn't recognize this room. At first, he didn't know where he was and what he was doing as he stared blankly at the feminine touches throughout the entire room. The windows were drawn, but through the slits of the curtains sunlight filtered in. He watched the dust motes drift before remembering everything that had happened previously.

Upon remembrance of the man, he looked around the rest of the room. He was so intensely sleepy...so intensely sluggish. He didn't feel alarmed, nor very coherent. Sighing, he laid back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling–wondering what was going to happen to him. Slowly, he lifted himself atop of his elbows, looking down at his sheet-covered form. He lifted the material off himself, examining his leg, and the fresh wrapping around it. It didn't hurt as much–in fact, he really wasn't feeling as much pain as he had, before.

Sighing again, he pulled the blankets up, pausing to examine his arms. The bitemarks were fading–they were still grotesque, but they were fading. Laying back down, he stared up at the ceiling then drifted off.

On and off he hit consciousness, finally realizing a while later that he was being drugged. The laudanum was an obvious indication as he saw it sitting nearby, on the end table. For a moment, he felt horrified, wondering if this was just an indication of a horrible future to come, but the narcotic made him so sleepy that he couldn't focus on that thought too much. He wondered where the man was, and what he was going to do with him–sullenly figured that he was better off with Junior. At least the man treated him a little better.

He woke up to the smell of breakfast a day later. Sluggishly, he shifted, pushing off the sheet, seeing that he'd been dressed in a shirt. _Better than nothing_, he figured as he examined his leg. He was utterly startled to see that the cloth was moving, that he could feel things _moving_ within his skin. It was a hair-raising feeling to know that something was on him. He took the cloth off, and felt his entire body shiver with disgust, seeing the writhing forms of maggots within the wound. He began slapping at the tubular forms, panicked sounds of disgust emerging from his lips.

His wrist was caught in mid-slap, startling him.

"Don't. Those things eat at the rot ya got goin' there."

Richie stilled, wondering if he were hallucinating. Wondering if this was some demented dream. Either someone was playing a cruel trick on him, or the cowboy that he'd dreamt about was not the person he hoped the man was. He looked away, feeling hopelessly let-down and waited for his wrist to be released. The narcotic made his stomach feel a little queasy, but he felt the edges of hunger upon seeing the small plate of food set down beside him. He worked the inside of his cheek, utterly aware of the other man as he moved away from the bed. Richie didn't dare look at him again–he had the fleeting thought that he'd just imagined that.

The silence was thick, pensive–one of the curtains were spread, the windows opened wide to allow the unnatural silence of outside filter in. The air was cool, and he could smell moisture. He stared sullenly at the plate that held a scrambled egg and a piece of dry toast. He wondered where the food came from when he himself hadn't found any the few times he'd looked.

Even so, he was ravenous enough to ignore his nausea and uncertainty of the situation, and scooped up both with his hands. He stuffed the egg into his mouth and chewed rapidly while working the toast in slowly. As he chewed, he darted nervous eyes toward the man, squinting as he wondered where his glasses were.

When the man moved to look away from the window, Richie quickly looked away, unfortunately looking at the maggots that writhed within his gun wound. He shuddered, food pushing at his throat before he looked away.

It made sense, though. Maggots ate at rot–perhaps it would keep away any setting gangrene.

Nothing was said between the two, and Richie's head raced with thoughts. While he worked on keeping his food down, he thought anxiously of his future. Being with someone that fixed him, and at the same time wanted to use him made him utterly distrustful and wary. It was almost like being with Junior again, but this was just one man amidst chaos–who knew what could happen?

While he had no real idea of the possibilities, he did know that they were bad.

The day passed slowly–the man left him, saying nothing of his whereabouts, but Richie heard the abrupt pounding of hoof beats almost an hour later. Multiple riders.

He immediately panicked, thinking of those skeletons, and did what he could to throw himself off the bed, rolling underneath. He heard the tired horses wheezing, whinnying in protest, and tried to compare the sounds to those of the animals the skeletons rode. Once he began hearing men shout at each other, though, he immediately crawled out of his hiding spot, pushing himself to move to the window to call for help.

His leg was so intensely sore that he ended up dragging it, excitement in the others overtaking lingering pain.

He slammed against the window sill, looking out to see a group of riders heading out towards the edge of town. He couldn't believe that he recognized Junior at the head, leading along a few horses with supplies. Relief swept through him, and he called for him, waving once the man turned in surprise at the sound of his voice.

Junior called him out impatiently, and Richie retreated, searching the room for his pants. Realizing he couldn't find them, he began searching the house hastily for something that he could wear out.

He must have taken a long while, for Junior came stomping in with an impatient expression, reacting with surprise at his appearance.

"What the hell happened ta you?" he demanded, Richie self-consciously pulling his shirt closed. It was a large shirt–the hem fell down over his thighs, but he hadn't buttoned it.

"I was shot."

"By who?"

"A...a ghost. A ghost man with a gun–!"

Junior rolled his eyes, and ushered him out of the house, without any regards to his half dressed appearance. The others were looking back at them curiously, and once seeing him, looked confused. Junior pushed him along with an impatient sound, looking around them anxiously.

"Er...everything...all right?" Virgil asked curiously, blinking in confusion over the boy's half-dressed state. "Ya'll all right?"

"We're gonna get goin', now," Junior announced. He tossed them a half-hearted expression of thanks. "We're goin' different ways. Got some people to find."

"I–well, if you see 'im..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we'll say somethin' when–when we see them." Junior pushed Richie to the smallest horse, but the boy wouldn't mount the obviously tired animal. "What'cha doin', boy? _Git on that horse_!"

"You left me!" Richie accused him angrily, holding tightly onto his shirt.

Junior rolled his eyes with severe exasperation, then grabbed his hair, shaking him roughly. "Goddamn you, don't'chu be back talkin' me at a time like this, or I'll be–!"

"_Hey_!" Virgil protested, sliding off his horse upon seeing the abuse. "Cut it out, man. C'mon. We're all havin' a rough time, let's not get all–!"

"Shut up! This here's my property! I treat it the way I want to!" Junior shouted at him. "You ain't got no say wit' what I do with it!"

Utterly appalled, Virgil gaped at him for a few moments, watching Junior shove Richie at the horse, angrily commanding him to get on. When the boy wouldn't, whining about needing pants, Junior raised a fist. Quickly, Virgil intercepted, sickened at seeing such a display. He grabbed the younger Alva's arm, yanking him back.

"Now, just _calm down_," he ordered as Junior quickly caught himself from falling back. "Let him git dressed some, all right? An' he's hurt. Maybe ya'll just need ta rest for a few days...maybe then he'll listen to you without fightin' wit' you."

Junior was amazed someone was talking down to him in such a way. Richie stood quietly, feeling a little cheered that there were some nice people out there–looking at Virgil with shy relief, utterly grateful for his interference. He clutched his shirt closed, looking at Junior, waiting for him to say something or do something to agree with the matter. After all, he really didn't feel like traveling. He still felt like shit.

Junior studied Virgil for a few moments, then looked at the other five men. Contempt filled him, then. He was outnumbered–if he tried to resist and tried to prove his point further, they'd overwhelm him immediately. He took a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly–struggling not to show his displeasure at being told what to do. He looked angrily at the boy, who was smart enough not to meet his eyes at that moment, then looked at Virgil.

"Fine," he spat. "But I ain't sharin' _nothin_' with the lot of you."

Virgil held his hands up in surrender. "That's okay, man. Really. Just...be nice, all right? We all shaken by this shit happenin', we don't need any more from each other. A human's a _human_."

Junior snorted at that, then shot Richie a contemptuous expression. "Git those horses an' take 'em back to the house we stayed at. An' no lip from you, either!"

Recognizing Junior's acquiescement to the situation, Richie shot Virgil another grateful expression of thanks, and did as Junior commanded, leading the horses off while trying to keep his shirt in place. Junior glared back at Virgil, then followed.

Virgil watched the pair with an expression of bewilderment, then looked at the others. It was nearing night–the clouds moving in had already cast their heavy, cold shadows down into the valley, making it much more darker than it was.

"We wanna rest here, a bit?" he asked.

"May as well," Adam replied, the others murmuring their agreement.

That night, Virgil and Adam stood out in the rain, discussing their next course of action. Virgil kept tossing looks down at the house at the edges of the town, where candlelight was visible from the large windows.

"Kinda funny," Virgil commented. "I recognize that kid. You know them Alvas' were takin' in male whores?"

"Not uh. That happens?" Adam asked in amazement.

"Yeah. 'Parently so. That kid, he was one of them girls."

"...He...was a girl? Or...?"

"Worked _wit_' the girls."

Adam shuddered slightly. "Well, it ain't that unusual. Men like each other, too."

"Yeah, but...I think it's wrong when...like...they don't get no choice in the matter. He's...what? Thirteen?"

"Yeah. Looked like it. Think that asshole's got any food?"

Virgil shrugged.

Adam gestured at the house, turning toward the one they were occupying. "Take somethin' over there. Make sure the kid eats. Got us some jerky an' bread."

Virgil nodded, the pair of them walking into the house. Five minutes later, Virgil was heading over to the house, bearing gifts. He walked in, immediately wincing at the horrid smells that hit him. It was the smell of death, sickly sweet and thick. From the front room, Richie glanced out at the noise, and upon seeing Virgil, quickly gestured at him to be quiet. Virgil was relieved to see that he'd found some pants and a jacket to wear, though his feet were still bare.

Virgil nodded in understanding, and waved him over, signaling that he follow him. He saw the cautious glance away, and heard the slid-drag sound of the kid's footsteps after him. Finding the kitchen, Virgil set the packs of food down, located a candle and lit it–a little surprised at the blood, scratch marks on the wall and overall mess.

He looked back at the quiet boy that eyed him cautiously from the doorway. "Shit happened here, huh?" he asked, a little too cheerfully. Trying to be friendly. It was like looking at an animal that had been kicked too many times, that intense wariness making him feel like a monster for even trying to be friendly. He gestured at the pack, then began unloading it. "You hungry? Figured we'd share, a bit. Got us some jerky, some bread, an' a couple of cans of hash."

"Okay."

Virgil recognized the Eastern accent, and began dividing up the food into threes. Even if he felt Junior didn't deserve anything, he felt it safest to do so. "Where you from?" he asked casually, handing over his share.

"New York."

"Oh yeah? Long way aways..."

At the shrug, Virgil figured that wasn't a direction to take, and he looked away to open the can of hash. "Kinda crazy out there, huh? I mean...all this stuff goin' on. My entire family was killed–but...I had an older sister, but we can't find her. She gone all missin'."

"...I'm sorry."

"Yours?"

"They're still in New York."

"Ah. Well...I had a friend. Sorta...I sorta blamed him for some stupid shit. He left, an'...I got ta thinkin', y'know, that I did wrong. So...so we kinda just lookin' for him, now."

"What does he look like?"

"'Bout...this tall," Virgil indicated a couple of inches above his head, "red hair, green eyes–kinda big. Ridin' a–"

"Has a beard? Mustache?"

Hope flared in him as he recognized that expression of recognizance in the kid's expression. "Might be. Has a Southern accent, kinda dumb–"

"He left this morning. He was the one taking care of me."

Virgil could have laughed in maniacal relief. Instead, a bark of sound came from him. "Yer shittin' me. He's here, then? Goes by the name Hotstreak? Or Francis?"

Richie shrugged. "Don't know. He never told me his name."

"Might be wearin' red, black boots–?"

"I don't know. He gave me laudanum. I haven't been very...coherent."

Virgil nodded, about shaking in excitement and relief. He shot the kid a bright smile. "He's my friend. I did him wrong, but...hopefully he'll forgive me. Kinda–y'know, we're good friends."

He caught the cautious, wary glance tossed his way, the instant stiffening of pale fingers. He looked at him in question, noting the way the kid suddenly seemed to back away from him.

"Thank you," he muttered, leaving Virgil alone.

Virgil blinked, confused at the sudden attitude. He thought the kid was going to open up to him, was starting to trust him. He finished dividing up the hash, then set the trash aside. Leaving the kitchen with his share and Junior's, he left the kitchen, heading quietly as he could toward the front.

Junior was sleeping, rather soundly, in the rocking chair nearby. Richie was sitting close to him, eating quickly. Shooting him a confused look, Virgil set Junior's food down on the floor, then picked it up upon seeing the torrents of discoloration on the floors and walls. The windows were busted, so the cold chill of the rain filtered in, and the heavy rumble of thunder cast loudly within the room. He set the food on a stand nearby, then looked at the pair one more time.

Seeing that he was being ignored, Virgil shrugged and left the house. Instead of heading back to the other's, he headed to the house where the kid had hailed them earlier. Walking in, he lit a oil-based lamp and searched through the two small rooms, noting that it had been a doctor's residence. Finding the bedroom, noting the use there, he sat atop of the bed, sitting the lamp atop of the nightstand and sighed heavily. He allowed himself to relax, feeling how sore his muscles were from the constant riding.

Looking around, he noted the narcotic sitting nearby, in liquid form. He looked to see fresh wrappings and dressings in a canister next to it, as well as an empty plate. There was also a small bottle of French perfume, something with lavender in it, sitting atop a box of ammo. Working his lips with thoughtful regard, Virgil wondered how his friend was doing. He wondered how the kid was hurt, and wondered what Junior planned to do.

Figuring he may as well as wait for Hotstreak to come back, he laid back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head to doze a little.


	13. Comin' Around The Mountain

**Chapter Twelve:  
>Comin' Around The Mountain...<strong>

Hotstreak frowned down at the books in hand–feeling undecided. He'd had these things, poring over them thoughtfully almost every day since he'd found them. His thoughts had examined all that he'd known of the kid since then; his behavior, his physical traits, everything that had been given to him in short amounts since their first meeting.

Every day he'd wondered if the boy were alive, if he were part of the undead.

And now that Hotstreak had the answer, he was at a loss as to what to do with him. After all, they'd parted with the redhead ranting at him, physically threatening him. Hating that he'd been duped, tricked, forced–it wasn't as if he _knew_ the kid. He knew about as much of him as the kid knew about _him_. And that was less than nothing.

He and Charger were milling around above the first road into Runner's Valley–he was watching over the exodus of zombies that were still coming in from the south, moving over the mountains into the area over. None of them were straying much in their direction–it seemed as if they were all following a single command, and that was to walk until they got to their destination.

Charger was pulling at various edible greens around him, and Hotstreak's thoughts weren't on the zombies; but on the boy that he assumed was still sleeping back at the doctor's house. He put the two books back with the others in his saddlebag, frowning.

At first, he'd felt guilty for using him; it had been unexpected, even to himself. He had thought he was in better control of himself–lust wasn't supposed to be satisfied that way. He'd honestly felt like a monster, afterwards–too embarrassed and yet relieved that he hadn't lasted long–after all, only monsters had sex with others against their will, _and_ while they were injured. He was fully aware of that.

At the same time, he was relieved that he was able to find out what it was like to actually have sex with the kid. It was almost as if he were being offered his very last meal, and he had to hurry to enjoy it. It made sense that way, for he wasn't sure how long he'd have the opportunity.

Hotstreak felt very despicable of himself. The kid was going to look at him and put him in the same spot he'd put the others, in. Look at him with whatever wariness it was the kid had of those around him. That wasn't the impression Hotstreak had wanted to give.

He wasn't sure what he wanted to give to the kid. For someone that had been on his mind for days after meeting him, the kid didn't need that sort of grief.

Hotstreak shut his eyes, giving a low groan as he wondered what in the world he was thinking that day. A whole lot of regret, some satisfaction, some interest–none of it good. A small voice argued with him, persistently keeping him occupied.

_But he's a whore_, that voice insisted. _They_ have _to put out. They_ have _to satisfy the customer!_

But he wasn't _bought_, he heard himself argue. He's fuckin' _sick_, for Chrissake!

_But he's a_ whore_..._.

Of course, arguing with himself over the topic wasn't helping much. He opened his eyes, looking up at the sky. A storm was coming in–the rumble of thunder was persistent. It had already drizzled a few times, but he could see that another front was moving in. Possibly snow. He wasn't sure of the temperature, as the pelts kept him pretty comfortable, but if it snowed...the kid probably wouldn't have a chance.

He was already sick–cold air would make it worse.

Then Hotstreak had to pull himself back–why was he thinking so much about him? It was insane how much room the stranger had in his thoughts.

He forced himself to think of Kangorr and the others. He was guilty in that his childhood friend was going to question his worth in their operations. After all, Francis Stone had up and left him a while back, because he himself couldn't handle the situation.

**010101010110**

There was just too many–! Blayne had himself positioned on the rooftop across the road, picking off the zombies and Hounds that surrounded the building, screaming up a storm. Francis was frustrated as he hurriedly reloaded three weapons he had–a shotgun, a rifle, an impressive Smith and Wesson–hearing Hounds howl angrily at him in his position atop a shanty.

Looking up, he saw that spectres were gearing themselves up for releasing powers of their own, their faces disappearing as maws continued to widen, and Francis snapped the chamber shut. Grabbing the other two guns, he hastily left his position, jumping down onto the open cart of a wagon, the Hounds following with anxious snarls.

Spectres were everywhere–the most frustrating of creatures, for how could one shoot a spirit? Francis was panting as he hit the dirt running, hearing the Hounds chase after him, Blayne's frustrated shouts racing after him. The Hounds weren't that fast–their awkward front legs slowed them considerably. It was when they finally realized that running on their hind legs gave Francis something to worry about–but Hounds weren't that smart. They usually discovered that on accident.

A spectres' scream made his skin crawl–they were like banshees, their shrieks physically manifesting themselves into a hard, painful wave of force that were strong enough to tear down houses.

But, just like a physical force, they were easily avoided.

Weaving in his running, Francis made it to the barn, and he fumbled with the matches he had in his pockets. Loaded with dry hay, with the doors and windows boarded shut, the barn was going to be the place they'd planned on killing most of the creatures with. He climbed hastily onto the ladder that led up to the loft, hearing the Hounds veer after him, knocking over bales of hay, cluttering the small shelter with their lumbering presence. Francis kicked the ladder down so that they couldn't follow him up.

He found the loose board of the wall that he and Blayne had found, and turned, looking over to see the Hounds leaping at the loft, teeth snapping frantically. Francis looked over at the glittering pools of oil that Blayne had drizzled over the hay. This place was going to go up in flames–the heat dissipated the spectres; sometimes, the spectres themselves blew like a vat of gas. Blayne always wondered about that. Since Hounds were practically impervious to everything else, it seemed almost impossible to kill them–but he and Blayne had learned that immense heat and dangerous gases caused by flame often did the trick. They died slowly, in agonizing pain, but the point was–they would _die_.

Francis lit a match, and crouched, lighting the torch that he'd set nearby. He looked up to see several spectres floating anxiously around the ceiling, looking for a way out. His eyes caught the barn doors that were being shut and locked, Blayne able to come through with that step.

Grinning, Francis lit the torch, grimacing at the heat that assailed him as both oil and cloth went up instantly. He looked down at the Hounds, and noticed a couple interested in a small trapdoor nearby. He furrowed his brow for a moment, wondering what had the creatures interested, but tossed the torch down onto the closest pile of hay, watching it catch instantly. The other Hounds immediately protested this with startled cries, lumbering away from the burning flames, Francis glancing up at the spectres that floated around with similar cries.

It bothered him how much these creatures understood their demises.

He kicked out the loose board, tossed out his guns, then followed their descent. The barn was flaring up with flames as oil caught hold of the heat, and the resounding shrieks of agony from inside were satisfactory. He grabbed his guns and headed around front, where Blayne was watching with a smirk of approval.

They grinned at each other with conspiratorial smiles, then watched the barn fill with flames. The agonizing shrieks were well worth the trouble the pair had been in, earlier. A loud, ear-ringing pop made Blayne chuckle.

"Wonder how it is they do that?" he wondered aloud, both of them moving back as overwhelming heat began licking at their exposed skin. "Made of gas?"

"Supernatural gas?" Francis questioned, then snickered. "Ghosts with gas."

Blayne chuckled, and they moved back. Through the spaces between the boards, both of them could see Hounds running in panicked circles, searching for a way out–another pop exploded, followed by another.

Then, Francis stilled. Between the shrieks of the Hounds, the dying screams of the spectres, came something else. Blayne stilled as well.

Human screams sliced through the burning agony of the demons. Men, women–the higher pitched shrieks of children.

Both of them were paralyzed with disbelief and horror, staring at the burning barn, skin crawling upon hearing those agonizing screams.

Through the spaces of those boards, they were visible–human bodies running in the same panicked agony as the demons, set aflame and burning alive by both fire and heat. The two boys could hear their desperation and torment as they tried the doors, the windows–to no avail. No one in their panicked torture thought of kicking at the boards to escape.

Francis couldn't breathe as he heard those screams, of men reaching octaves he'd never heard, before. Of women losing their breath with continuous shrieks–the telltale octaves of children in excruciating pain.

He turned away, feeling absolutely horrible as Blayne continued staring at the fire in stunned horror.

That next morning, Francis looked up from his breakfast as Blayne walked over, shaking his head in morose regret. He was carrying the skins of the Hounds, ready to make clothing with them–once the Hounds died, their skin was easier to peel from their bodies. Heat made the pelts supple and easier to handle before cooling into the imperishable hides that became useful.

"We didn't know, man," he said softly, crouching beside him. "We didn't know..."

Francis felt horrible, thinking of those screams. Wondering how they'd missed them. He thought of the trapdoor the Hounds were starting to investigate before he'd lit the fire.

The scrambled eggs he was eating turned to dust in his mouth, and he spat, setting his plate aside. They couldn't have known–but why hadn't those people revealed themselves earlier? While the boys were planning their trap? He thought of the hour they'd spent walking around, patching up the windows and the doors, of Blayne struggling with the oil barrel.

_Why_?

He thought of the children that were in there, and felt instantly nauseated.

"We couldn't have known, man," Blayne repeated, mainly to himself.

Francis looked at him, swallowing hard. In his mind's eye, he could still see those frantic movements of people afire running in the barn.

Looking for a way out.

**010101010110**

He'd left Kangorr after that. Fully immersed himself into other activities; finally planned out his first train robbery with a passenger train heading out of the Panhandle–felt royally screwed when a passenger challenged him, and he'd ended up shooting the guy.

It felt that his past with the creatures caught up with him, then. Spending all that time alone with his own thoughts, fending for himself–making all the wrong decisions–he took to drinking and raised Hell wherever he went, determined to avoid that zombie business. Just seeing all that he had, reliving them in dreams, made him realize just what they had done.

People were dying day by day, horribly gruesome deaths–almost every one left an impact on him. He'd wake up, shaking and sweaty, seeing faces twisted in agony–hear their screams, smell death and blood; every time, he'd push it away. He'd push himself to do more things every day, to travel.

He left Orleans and head up North, randomly hitting whatever place was closest for a quick robbery and scam. He'd had bounty hunters on him for awhile, but he'd lost them somewhere in Kansas–he'd heard of the invasion there, so he'd left the territory quickly, winding up in Texas for some time before heading once more northwest.

The West beckoned him. He'd found the Hawkins, and things had seemed fine. He hadn't seen or heard of any zombies, any weird doings–and laid low to avoid anyone looking to make a quick buck. He thought Blayne had come through with 'saving the world'. Unfortunately, he hadn't.

Thinking about what he'd lost made Hotstreak extremely depressed.

As he watched the zombies cross the main road, their guttural cries slicing through the thunder, he wondered when it would all _end._

He thought of the boy–wretched amber eyes–and gave a low sigh. Maybe...maybe this one could get his mind off things.

The boy wasn't going to turn–that he was confident in. Whomever had possessed the individual that had bitten him wasn't infectious–the spectre was probably independent. Caine and this 'him' were far away–he doubted they'd bother with some teenage whore from the East.

With all the sudden deaths, there were sudden spirits–hauntings, poltergeists. They lingered in their towns, terrorizing their own homes. These were spectres–they emitted banshee-like wailings that manifested into physical force. They were able to possess and 'haunt'. Blood, Inc. had discovered that heat and sagebrush worked quite fine in fending them off.

As complicated as things seemed in the destruction of the invaders, it was actually simple. One just needed to have the means.

**010101010110**

Virgil heard the door open, and he tensed. Upon hearing the heavy weight of a man walking in, he immediately pictured his friend wearing rain-drenched clothing and cursing tiredly about something he couldn't quite accomplish. Grinning, he sat up on the bed and faced the doorway, ready to argue his forgiveness for being a hysterical ass.

Hotstreak walked in, and performed a double take, obviously very surprised.

"Hey, man," Virgil greeted quietly, giving him a sheepish look. "Finally tracked you down. Took awhile..."

Hotstreak studied him for a few moments, then set down his rain-drenched pack. Due to the pelts he was wearing, he was dry and quite comfortable. His eyes roved quickly around the room, and his guarded expression to Virgil was something of a surprise to the younger man.

"You found me," he said simply, his face not exactly happy with the information.

Virgil studied him, noting the new signs of strain on his friend's face–the obvious facial hair and misery. "You don't look so good."

Hotstreak shrugged. "Been tough."

"Yeah...I...I wanted to say how sorry I am, man. Fer...not bein'...quite right in the head." Virgil leaned back on the bed, watching his friend shrug out of his coat, removing his hat. "I was in shock. I said things I shouldn't've. I regret it. It weren't your fault. Not at all."

Hotstreak shrugged again, removing his belt. Taking the chair in the back corner, he heaved a tired exhale, and took up his rifle. "Where's the kid?"

"...Junior took him back."

Virgil caught the flash of irritation that crossed his friend's face, and he sat up. "You know–"

"How'd ya'll find me? Not much people around these parts, lately."

"There were some. Said you were with...a buncha people in black. Kinda...took awhile. But there ain't that many settlements up here since the gold rush last year."

Hotstreak thought about it for a few moments, then ran a hand over his matted hair. "What's Junior doin' up here?"

"I...I don't know. He...I guess it's just him an' that kid." Virgil watched him for a few moments, judging his mood. It felt different being there–that the person he was talking to wasn't that person anymore. Looking at him, he could see the physical changes, but there were others that were hidden beneath that roughened surface. It was almost as if he were seeing Hotstreak as that man that had just arrived on Hawkins' Ranch, drunk and quietly disturbed.

He gave a lopsided frown. "You okay, man? Been hard on ya?"

"...Yeah. But...y'know...guilt an' all."

"...It wasn't your fault–"

"Don't say that shit, Hawkins. It _was_. An' you know it. It'll always be my fault."

"No, you didn't know. You didn't know at th' time–!"

"Shut up, Virgil. Don't wanna talk about it."

Virgil quieted, a look of concern on his face as his friend lapsed into silence. He heard the steady beat of rain atop of the rooftop, and the gentle rumble of thunder. The chilly air wafted into the house, reminding him of the lack of fire or warmth. He sighed lightly, shrugging his shoulders.

"We can rest, man. Talk in the mornin'. Brought some of the boys wit' me. Adam...Tom, Randy, Willie, James..." Virgil rose from the bed, shaking out his legs. "Stick around, man. Don't run off."

Hotstreak waved him off, sullenly staring at the floor, but Virgil persisted. "Please. _Don't run off_."

Getting no answer or expression, he turned and headed out of the house. Before he left, a severe chill raced through him, making him question whether or not he'd made the right choice in finding his friend.

The next morning, Virgil awoke to furious shouting. Lifting his head from the saddle bag that acted as his pillow, he saw that the others were waking up to the same noises. Blinking himself to coherency, he realized that Junior was shouting and screaming up a storm. It was obvious the man was pissed.

Hurrying out, wiping away the crust at the corner of his eyes, Virgil saw Junior angrily gesturing at the correl nearby. From the looks of it, it seemed as if the horses he'd had the day before were gone. The younger Alva was screaming about the boy's ineptitude, and finally tired of screaming himself hoarse. When the man advanced on the kid, fists swinging, Virgil hurried over to interfere.

"Hey, hey, _hey_!" he shouted, throwing himself between them, yanking Junior away from him. "What's goin' on? Calm down, man! _Chill_!"

"That fuckin'–that little bastard–good fer nothin'–! Lost our horses!" Junior panted furiously, yanking himself away from Virgil. He gestured at the correl, Virgil looking over and noting the same emptiness as before. "_They ran away_! Fuckin' bitch didn't tie the gate good!"

"Look, _calm down_," Virgil advised, hands raised. "We'll find them, all right? I'll git a couple of guys, an' we'll go look for them. Just...in the meanwhile, calm down. Stop hittin' him. He's just a kid."

"I'm not a kid!" Richie spoke up, catching his breath as well.

"Yer justa worthless whore!" Junior screamed at him, making him frown.

"Now, _hey_–! Just...stop the name-callin', man," Virgil asked, giving him a sour look. "Look, it was just a little mistake–!"

"Yer gonna kill us, you little–!"

"I'm so sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't–!"

"–piece of –!"

"I said, KNOCK IT OFF!" Virgil bellowed, voice ringing over the silent town. It seemed to echo throughout the entire valley, quieting the raging man and making the kid cringe. Taking a deep breath, Virgil regained his patience, and looked at Junior directly. "I'll take a few of my guys. We'll go an' look for 'em. All right? An' just leave the kid alone."

"I'm not a kid–!"

"You'll _look_ fer them?" Junior asked incredulously, then shot him a suspicious look. "How do I know that? You'll bring 'em back? What if yer lyin'? I don't believe you."

Virgil gave him an aghast expression, then scowled at him. "Lissen here, _you_–! How _dare_ you–? I offered ta do somethin' _nice_ for you, an' you just–!"

"I jus' don't believe you! I don't _know_ you!"

Richie sighed tiredly, rubbing at his face. When it was obvious Junior was persistent in his suspicions, he turned and headed back toward the house. His leg ached something fierce, feeling heavy and stiff–he was dragging it behind him, straining with every effort.

Junior frowned after him, ignoring Virgil's angry tirade about having his good efforts thrown back into his face. He realized how badly he was mistreating the kid, especially in the state he was in, now. But he couldn't seem to control himself–the situation was out of his control (was it ever _in_ his control?), and he was quite stressed. Ill with it, in fact.

"Fine, _fine_!" He interrupted Virgil with a wave of his hand, walking toward the house. "Jus'–just do what ya want to. I'll repay you."

Virgil shot him a scowl, shaking his head slightly. This man had all the nerve–! But he felt so bad for the kid, and he sighed heavily, shaking out his continued anger over Junior's actions and words.

He turned to gather up a couple of his friends, looking up to judge the weather.

Richie sulked as he watched Virgil and the others mount their horses an hour later. Junior was describing the horses' physical appearances, and stressing that he wanted them _all_ back. Every so often, he'd shoot Richie a furious glare for all the trouble he'd caused.

Feeling a little frustrated and more than sullen for the whole ordeal–he knew he'd locked the damn gate, using the very same knots he'd seen Junior use–he rubbed lightly at his leg, careful of the wound. He could feel the stitches beneath the material of his pants, remembering the feel of maggots in there. Despite the redhead's warning, he'd removed the larvae out of disgust. His entire leg was intensely sore and stiff–it hurt to move it, feeling as if his thigh had locked, stinging bolts of pain pulsing from the area with continuous effort.

Walking about had agitated it greatly, and activity had tired him out. It felt as if what little energy he'd had had left him yesterday, meeting with Junior.

Virgil loudly assured him they'd find the horses, and Richie didn't bother with looking up. He was intensely wary of these men; especially Virgil for his friendship with the large redhead. Experience with Junior and the others had told him men loved to do things in groups–he was afraid they'd use him with Hotstreak's encouragement.

Really, he felt that his only safety here was with Junior–at least he was familiar with the man. Junior wouldn't touch him that way unless prompted with plenty of alcohol and his friends' encouragement.

So as far as he was concerned, Virgil and the others were just as dangerous as Casey and the others had been.

He looked up to see Junior stalking over, muttering low, slapping his leg with his hat. Richie bit his lower lip, watching him cautiously as the man neared. He cringed, expecting to be hit, but Junior passed by without word or physical expression.

Richie straightened, looking after him in surprise and worry. Fear hit him, then, thinking instantly of Junior getting back at him by letting those men have him as payment for finding the horses. If Junior wasn't inflicting the abuse, he would get someone else to do it. He swallowed hard, looking around himself anxiously. He pushed himself to his feet, hurrying after the older man.

His leg dragged, refusing to move as smoothly as it had before the shooting. He heard the slam of a door upstairs, and paused in the living room.

Fear and anxiety pulsed at him, making every bit of him tremble. His leg throbbed painfully–he winced. Pressing forward, he climbed the stairs awkwardly. He found the room Junior was staying in, and knocked at the door timidly.

"Junior? Sir?" he called out, fiddling with his shirt sleeve. "Sir?"

He heard the approach of boots on wood, and moved back as the door flew open. Junior reached out to grab a hold of his shirt, shaking him.

"You stay out of my sight! You stay the fuck away from me! I'ma fuckin' kill you if'n you don't! You'd better hope they find the horses, cuz I ain't wantin' to be relyin' on them! You unnerstand?" Junior snarled, his bitter breath hitting Richie's face, making him cringe. The younger Alva then shoved him roughly to the floor, making him cry out with pain. "Get out! I don't wanna see you, or hear you, or _smell_ you! I catch _any_ of that, I'll rip you apart! I'll make you wish you were dead, Goddamn it!"

With the slamming of the door, Junior once again retreated to his room. Moments later, there came the crashing sound of glass bottles and angry curses. Richie rose painfully from the floor, holding tightly onto his leg. He was a mixture of feelings, unsure of what to feel good about. He heard Junior continuously cursing him, obviously drinking. Richie decided to make do with Junior's threats, and awkwardly left the house.

Once outside, his anxiety increased. Adam was out and about, and once he caught sight of Richie, he waved.

"You hungry?" he asked, holding up a leather pack. "I'm goin' to cook somethin'–!"

Richie shook his head and carefully descended the porch, watching Adam warily. The black man gave him a puzzled look, watching him as he hobbled around the house, disappearing out of view.

Feeling utterly ill with his gathered anxieties, Richie limped about cluelessly, unsure of where to go or what to do. He found himself searching for his glasses, retracing his steps from the house and through the small area of houses. He found his prints immediately.

Miraculously, he found his glasses–intact and unscathed, near the house where he assumed he'd been shot. He examined them with a low sound of disbelief, and cleaned them.

Sliding them on, he looked around himself. Feeling the need to lay low, he came up to a small shack, carefully working the door open. He walked in, looking at the single bed and cozy settings. He slipped the lock in place and looked over the bed. Feeling overwhelmed by all that had happened to him, he slipped on top, exhaling heavily as exhaustion set in.

**010101010110**

Junior sat out on the back porch, scanning the horizon for Virgil and the others. He was a little buzzed–most of the alcohol was gone. He tapped the glass bottle against the heel of his boot, the sound obscenely loud within the silence of the abandoned town. Thunder rumbled with troubled expression over head, lightning dancing out in the horizon. The air was chillier than usual–he didn't want to think about it snowing anytime soon. They were so ill-prepared for that event.

He realized how inadequate he was–he'd lived in a settlement his entire life. He hadn't had to do much–there were people to do things for him. Casey and the others, for example–they'd been the ones to do most of his dirty work. They were the experienced ones. He'd barely ventured from the settlement. He hadn't had the need to hunt, to trap–he was okay at it once in a while, but never on a continued basis.

He was good with a gun, but that was from hours of practice. He was good at roping livestock for fun–he was okay with travel within small distances (he hated to admit he grew sick in extended travel). He grew tired of dealing with punishments because while he felt it gave him some power, it grew tiring after awhile. The kid wore him out in that aspect–it was as if the kid had no ears, or was some kind of masochist.

But the thing was, Junior was a man of enough wealth to have things done for him. To be suddenly independent made him desperate and panicked–helplessness spurring on his attitude to have control. He stared out anxiously over the empty correl, wondering if his father was going to come back.

He'd made the resolution to get back at his father for abandoning him, but he still contemplated whether or not Alva made the hasty decision because they were pressured by the invasion. He was still hoping that his father would come back.

He was still hoping that the others were going to come back and search for him. They would _have_ to–Alva would want him near, wouldn't he? After all, Junior did most of his dirty work for him. And above it all, he was Alva's son–that meant _something_.

Alva wouldn't just–abandon him.

...Would he?

He had to know that Junior was still alive. He had to!

Junior didn't want to fret over the idea that Alva was going to forget about him. He just figured they were held up somewhere–_trying_ to make it back for him.  
>But somehow, that confidence faltered. Alva needed him, but he never showed his son just how much or how often.<p>

He sighed low, worrying his bottom lip. While he was uncertain of how independent he could be, he didn't want to rely on people lower than him. Alva was a wealthy man, and Junior had grown up knowing that he was a bit of personality that enabled him to be 'higher' than others. So Junior regarded many people without money, of color, of status in levels–if they didn't have money, they were below him.

He was surrounded by these people at the current moment. Three blacks, one Hispanic, one white man–the kid was a whore. All of them were below Edwin Alva, Jr.

But he had to overcome that to make things work. He had to–as much as he regretted it–work _with_ them. He had to get somewhere, and that meant he'd need help. But how much of it...? And for how long?

He would still use the kid–the kid was smart. Junior had no doubt about that, but that didn't make the kid anywhere near respectable. Junior would use him, and all would be well in that aspect. But how to get to that point?

He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, frowning at the sound of rain. It was coming their way, wisps of clouds hiding the warm sunlight–the fog was still drifting over the mountains, bringing snow with them for sure.

He rose from the porch, dusting off his pants. Just as he was going to head back into the house, he saw riders in the horizon. Squinting to see better, he was very relieved to see that it was Virgil and the others–with their horses. It was foreign for him to feel this utterly ecstatic–but he had to frown once again. He didn't think that Virgil and the others would do such a thing out of the kindness of their hearts–there must be something that they'd want.

Frowning, he chewed on the inside of his cheek with his back molars, then decided on the next best bargaining tool.

"Boy!" he bellowed, anxiously pacing the porch. It would be just this once–barter, bargain, re-payment. "_Boy_!"

As he was hollering, it hit him then–what _was_ the kid's name? He was bewildered at this–he tried thinking of the day they'd first received him, and couldn't remember what Alva had called him. He tried to remember the other whores addressing him, but everyone just called him 'kid', 'boy', or 'honky'. Blinking cluelessly, Junior was stumped.

Later that night, he was grumbling low to himself as Virgil pressed him for details.

"He couldn't have gone far!" he exclaimed.

"It's too dark to try an' look fo' his prints," James murmured with a frown. "Couldn't've gone that far wit' that leg o' his..."

"You don't even know his _name_?" Virgil then repeated, utterly appalled at this lack of inattention.

Junior looked clueless once more, giving Virgil a blank look.

"_You don't know his name_?"

"_No_!" Junior snapped, once again since he'd revealed that sheepish realization. "I don't! I forgot!"

"You _forgot_ his name? You're travelin' wit' th' kid!" Virgil cried. "How could you _forget_?"

"He's a whore! They all the same!" Junior shouted over the men's shouts for 'kid' and 'boy'.

Virgil glared at him. "Human beings are _human beings_. An' all human beings have _names_."

Junior scoffed, looking away from him. He moved away, grumbling.

Virgil shook his head with exasperation. He gave Adam an aghast expression. "Can you believe that man?" he asked incredulously. "He thinks he can treat people so...so _callously_!"

Adam shrugged. "Ain't he always been that way?"

"Don't know him personally, but...people shouldn't be treatin' each other that way. 'Specially a kid!"

"Junior prolly terrorized him 'nough, he prolly out hidin'."

Virgil grumbled for a few more minutes, then sighed. The rain was coming down harder, and the streets were turning into mud. "This valley flood a lot?"

"Structures don't look made for it."

Junior came back, a bewildered look on his face. "Anyone know what that sound is?"

Virgil blinked, then frowned. Adam turned, waving at the men to be quiet. As they fell silent, the rain fell in noisy torrents, thunder rumbling noisily in the distance.

Then they caught it–the high pitched shrieks of something inhuman.

Instantly, the men began to react, hastily grabbing weapons, looking for places to hide. Junior paled, looking down the street, taking off with hasty shouts for Richie. Virgil looked after him, intending to call him back, but Adam grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him after him.

"Let's find some cover, man! Git outta sight, fer a bit!" he shouted.

"But they–!"

"Let 'em alone! Kin fend for themselves!"

"I can't do that!" Virgil wailed. "They just–he's so _stupid_–! He ain't–!"

"Virgil, I ain't lettin' you go–!"

"I can't just let 'em get _eaten_–!"

"Virgil–!"

"Hawkins, Evans, shut the fuck up."

Both of them went silent, looking over at Hotstreak, who was peering anxiously down the street. He was armed to the teeth with all the weaponry he had–seeing his white knuckles as he gripped a double-barreled shotgun made Virgil a little more tense than usual. He cast his friend a worried look, swallowing hard as he tried to imagine what sort of creature made this sort of sound.

"What's that?" he whispered, drawing out his Smith and Wesson. "Somethin' even more horribler than–than those _things_?"

Hotstreak ignored him for a moment, then gave a sort of disbelieving chuckle. He looked at Virgil.

"Yeah, actually. It's Caine."


	14. When She Comes

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Thirteen:  
>...When She Comes<strong>

Her eyes narrowed as she looked around. It was obvious this town hadn't been combed as intensively as she liked. There were people here–she could _hear_ them.

They were surrounded by an army of zombies and other creatures–pulling the carriage were two creatures that moved them sluggishly with their heavy movements.

They were traveling along the main road up north, where Madelyne wanted to escape the heat and see the world up there. But, out of annoyance, she'd detected the presence of survivors–a very small number, enough for her to grow interested. Their course switched, she was both nervous and irritated as she sat primly in her seat, glaring at nothing.

The threat to her life by Blood, Inc. was a serious event that she refused to take lightly. If there was a small number of people along the same path as she, she was going to investigate.

Beside her, Caine continued with his off-key singing, something about an Irish girl and a pub, but Madelyne didn't feel like paying attention to hear what it was that made the song so bawdy. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she scowled as a particular high-note sent some of the zombies screeching in agony. They had been screaming in undead torture for the last twenty or so minutes. Anything of high pitch relation sent their dead circuits, combined with her telepathic prison over them, into torturous overdrive. The resulting product was high pitched shrieks. Many of which gave her a headache.

"Feedback minimized," she muttered coldly, shooting Caine an annoyed look. "Re-processing–rebooting. Maximum control in five...four...three...two...one."

Caine paused in singing, adjusting his hat. Looking over at the prim eight-year-old sitting across from him, her hands folded neatly on her lap, he sighed. The zombies stopped their tormented shouting, falling silent. There was only the sound of the carriage being pulled, the jerky actions minimized by the velvety cushions of the interior.

"Darlin'...much as I love you, methinks you should be tired of pretending to be something yer not," he said with a high level of exasperation.

Madelyne ignored him, her bob bouncing with a particularly jolting movement. She stared out at the opened windows, her lips curving into a frown. A push made by her mind sent most of the zombies and assisting creatures forward–to hurry ahead and start the invasion into the valley. She kept a surrounding bunch around her, and pushed another command into the creatures pulling the carriage to take a road off the main. She had to protect herself, but she risked death just to make sure that she wouldn't be threatened by Blood, Inc.

Caine sighed again, shifting in his seat. His ostrich-skin boots stretched out across the aisle, plopping down beside her. She cast them an annoyed glance, then looked at the man that served as her bodyguard/father.

"There are still people here," she said tightly. "I can _hear_ them."

"We'll make a stop, darlin', an' I'll see what I can do about them. More than likely, the troops outside will take care of them. Stop your fretting."

"I cannot help but _fret_ when I know that Blood, Inc. is still around these parts. I am quite upset in that they haven't yet been terminated," Madelyne said, a rising level of tense exasperation in her tone. "They can kill me at any time."

"But they won't, honey-cheeks. See, the thing is, while they might be better than the average bear in slaughtering our forces, the thing is, they ain't enough to get close to you," Caine reassured her. "Ain't enough power in the world for them to get close to you. Besides, it isn't as if you can hear their thoughts and keep yourself out of trouble, anywho."

Madelyne made a scoffing sound, shrugging thin shoulders. Staring out the window, she murmured, "They aren't very scared. Sometimes, people are running in fear. These ones aren't. Very highly irritating. It could be _them_."

"How many are there?" Caine asked, rather bored as he peered at his fingertips. Many of his fingernails had fallen off over the long years of his life. "I'll make sure they're taken care of."

Madelyne's young face scrunched with thought. She could hear their panicked thoughts–but was unable to focus on them clearly. Her mind was always occupied with the forces she had spread throughout the West. Hearing the panicked whispers assured her of their numbers. "Hmm. One, two...three...four...there's five...plus three. Eight. Eight of them. Over ten horses. No females."

"Well, then. I'll make sure to get rid of them. In the meantime...how about we look through this town for some boy's clothing, hmm? Get a haircut...be a little more manlier."

Madelyne shifted her thoughtful gaze to look at Caine, expression shifting into utter annoyance. "I am a _girl_, Caine. I'm _not_ a boy!"

"...But...darlin'...those bits and parts underneath that calico dress say otherwise..."

"_I. Am. A._ Girl."

Caine held his hands up in surrender, sighing as he once again lost the argument. Grumbling low to himself, he wondered how, out of all the children he'd sired, one of his boys had to go pretending that he was a girl. Madelyne shot him an annoyed look once more.

"You bring that subject up once more, Caine, and I assure you–"

"Yes, yes, darlin', I understand. Can't help but hear that every damn day," he grumbled, pulling at his vest. "Just tryin' to prevent mortifying embarrassment later on the road, when you get it in your head that, biologically, you're a _boy_."

Madelyne huffed, leaning back in her seat. Reaching out to her troops, she realized the town was fully invaded. The living were cornered. It was easy to see this through the dead eyes of the few zombies she was able to occupy. Shifting from vision to vision until she realized that the living were trapped like rats. It made her feel a little better.

"You exasperate me."

"I'm your father, darlin', I have to."

**010101010110**

Junior grunted as he sent the butt of his rifle against the Hound's face, repeatedly knocking the creature's head back. The angry demon was trying hard to beat the others in getting to him, leaping repeatedly at the man poised over the slender ledge of the town's only saloon. Just above him on the roof, James and Randy were firing off shots at the animals that clambered below them. Their howls were loud, piercing over the forceful explosions of buckshot.

Across the way, Virgil was picking off the zombies that were snarling as fiercely as the animals, clawing at the wooden supports of the post office. Hotstreak was across from him, occupied with the Mad Men that cackled joyously upon the very many and various targets around them. Animals were squealing, men and women were screeching, and children were bawling in tantrum-similar rages as the living were cornered by the army. Wood protested violent treatment, gunshots filled the air–as safe as the living felt atop of their various positions, it was fleeting the more the undead filled the streets.

Virgil was quite panicked as he witnessed this mad frenzy–he'd seen his share of zombies, and a few of the creatures, but some of it was quite new to him. Unaware that he'd be fighting for his life and those of the others in such a manner, he was unprepared for this occasion. He was quickly running out of ammo, and looked helplessly at the others, unsure of how they were doing.

He spied Hotstreak fiddling with something, watching with panic as he realized he was lighting a torch. "You crazy?" he screamed from his position. "You'll kill us all!"

His friend shot him an annoyed look, and tossed the hastily made torch into a group of zombies below. The frenzied shrieking of the undead grew volumes as clothes caught fire, and skin began to burn. The more the zombies began panicking, the more the fire began to spread.

Junior looked over, mouth dropping with dismay as flames licked the buildings closest to them. He whirled away from the Hound he'd been beating on, shouting at Hotstreak, "You loser! You tryin' to kill us all!"

Hotstreak frowned at him as well, watching the progressing spread of fire as Mad Men's mounts caught the flame–hides went up easily, animals squealing. From their protesting, panicked actions, they spread the bright orange flames from Hound to zombie, until heat rapidly began to warm the air. Soon, everything was brightly lit with the spreading fire, Junior hastily allowing the others to pull him up as he sought to escape the heat.

The living was now in a panic, seeking out escape from the fire that caught onto the worn wooden planks of various shanties. Virgil followed Adam and the other two hands across the roof–once hitting the edge, they found easy access down to the ground from a half-covered wagon whose back wheels were split. Quickly, they climbed down, Adam hastily covering them as a Mad Man shrieked upon discovering them.

Virgil ducked as a cleaver blade embedded into the wall just above his head, Adam taking out the offending creature with a well-placed shot between the eyes. As the Mad Man fell off his horse, heels over head, the horse charged Adam. Lowering its head, it rammed full force into the black man, sending him flying through the dirt, weapon flying off into the darkness.

Virgil managed to recover from his hasty duck, looking back to see Adam roll to avoid being trampled by the charging beast. Tom busied himself with hacking the fallen Mad Man to bits, enraged at the continuing movement of the armed skeleton. Willie was firing repeatedly at the mad animal that turned, charging toward them once more.

It squealed as its back leg was shot out, rolling once as it slammed into the dust, Adam hastily climbing to his feet and searching for his weapon.

Virgil hurried away from them, looking for a way to get to their horses so that they could escape. Fire was spreading from building to building, now–smoke made the darkness much more thicker. Zombies were still running about in mad panic, spreading more flame wherever they went–there wasn't a sign of Hounds. There wasn't any sign of the other four men, either.

Worriedly, he saw that the other three had handled the Mad Man and its mount, taking over on the weaponry the skeleton carried and a jacket that Willie threw on quickly.

Virgil led the way out of the back alley, heading for the correl that they'd left their horses. He was hoping against hope that they were still alive–the invaders had been rapidly occupied with trying to get at them rather than exploring the rest of the town.

He heard their panicked whinnies, success making him laugh aloud as he ran for them–they were still saddled, still tied to the post they'd left them. He was making a mad dash when gunfire hit the ground before him, stopping them all in mid-run.

"GET OUT OF THERE!" Hotstreak bellowed in panicked regard, firing again at their feet to make them turn, running back the way they came.

Virgil looked up to question him when the scream of a much larger animal caught his attention–a lumbering black shadow the size of an upright Grizzly shot into view, maw opened wide with a victorious scream.

All men, new to this creature, screamed aloud in surprise and fright. They ran harder as the creature charged, joined by two others.

The ground shook underfoot as these creatures ran after them, quickly closing the distance between them. Virgil looked over his shoulder, smelling that sun-rotted breath from the creature's open mouth, seeing the wide, deranged eyes–he wasn't sure what the creature looked like. It was a horrid twist of a pug's face with the maw of a bear. The claws at the end of its paws weren't exactly soft and cuddly, either. He saw that the others were scrambling hastily for higher ground–there weren't very many options. Fire was spreading everywhere–safety was being taken from them.

He veered suddenly to the left, running into the fire, the head creature following after him with a heavy snort. The other two continued to chase Adam and the others, who were climbing back up the half-covered wagon, making way for the post office; it didn't make clear sense. The building was clearly on fire.

This was made obvious when the porch sagged with a terrific groan, then began to collapse. The building began sinking forward, and with it, Tom was dragged down with the gravity. As he screamed, rolling back into the fire, Adam and Willie managed to jump to safety on opposite sides.  
>Adam was lucky–Willie wasn't.<p>

One of those large creatures caught him in mid-air within its maw; the crunch its teeth made with crushing the man's body was horrific. Willie's scream was cut in mid-sound, strangled as he was tossed to the side. The two creatures advanced on him instantly, like a pair of dogs struggling to get to their chew toy before the other. Willie didn't have a chance to scream again as one set of teeth settled over his upper back, and another pair settled over his mid thigh.

The tear of a human body seemed to sound above all the chaos. As he was split in half by opposing forces, innards splashed through the air, falling into the dust. The creatures growled and snapped at each other as they settled for what they got.

Meanwhile, Adam was scrambling for safety, coughing violently as he inhaled smoke. The roar of the rapidly moving fire overcame all other sounds, and as he tried to shout for Virgil, he was racked with coughs. He lost his way as smoke drifted across his vision, and as he began running, almost mindlessly, he became aware of the shaking ground that signaled another incoming creature.

Hastily, he dove underneath a nearby porch, crawling quickly through the darkness as the creature lumbered past, howling in discovery. Making it out onto the other side, Adam was back on his feet, running once more. He cried aloud as he saw the horses straight ahead, panicking madly as they fought to get loose. Smoke and flame made them agitated, as well as the screams and shouts of the undead as they were consumed by fire.

He made it to the horses, quickly undoing their ties, holding them firmly as he climbed atop of his horse. Looking around, he saw no signs of the others–and he began to holler frantically for somebody, fighting his horse and the others for control.

Out of the smoke from his left came Junior and Randy–there wasn't a sign of James. Randy looked fairly stricken, the whole upper half of his body coated in dark red. He had trouble claiming his horse, Junior showing no signs of affliction as he climbed on Willie's, urgently reining the horse in to his command. As Adam helped Randy onto his, he saw out of the corner of his eye Junior forcing the horse back into town.

"You crazy son of a bitch!" he screamed, wondering what in the world was so important in there. He thought instantly of Virgil and the others, and instructed Randy to ride toward the mountains–to follow the road out. They'd meet later.

Randy complied without another word, kicking his horse into a dead sprint away from the burning town. Adam turned, holding hard onto the reins of the other horses, most of whom were anxious to ride away. He scanned the chaos for Virgil, shouting his name–he only received response from the burning undead, and the attention of various creatures.

Quickly, he steered his horse around, heading toward the back section he and the others had just narrowly escaped. He saw a running figure burst out from the smoke, and gave a relieved bark as he recognized Virgil. But the man was being pursued by several Hounds, all of whom looked insanely frustrated that they couldn't catch him. Adam steered his horse toward him, then began to lead them further, making Virgil run harder just to catch onto the closest horse. Once he climbed atop, Adam let go of its reins, and Virgil made the quick switch onto Sparky, holding tightly onto the reins of the horse he'd used to get up.

The two instantly began running the horses out of the Hounds' reach, their frustrated howls and screams following them.

"Where's the others!" Virgil screamed at Adam over the noise.

"Randy's up ahead! Told him to go! Junior went back in there! The others, I haven't seen!"

"Think Willie's dead! I...I think..." Virgil began kicking his left boot frantically, and Adam could see the discoloration there. "Tom–?"

"Burned. The buildin' collapsed when we climbed on."

The pair of them were far enough away to settle the horses, turning to look back at the flames that light up the night. Virgil looked at the horses, and recognized those that belonged to their friends, and to Junior's. He had no idea where Hotstreak kept his horse–wondered if he still had Charger.

He looked back at the burning town, and wondered if he should go back.

But something hit him–seeing how his friend stayed in control, not panicked–having lived all this time...

Something told him not to worry about him.

He looked at Adam. "Let's go find Randy."

"What about the others?" Adam asked worriedly, shooting the fire a look. "They still out there!"

"I...I think they can handle themselves..."

"Junior?"

"...Do we _care_ about him?"

"...Not...not really, but–!"

"He went back in there, I think he made his decision."

Adam studied him for a few moments, then frowned. "Stone?"

"Stone can handle himself." Virgil cast the town another look. "We'll just wait an' see, man. Let's just go."

Adam was too distressed by the entire incident to dwell on it. He just followed Virgil and his horse further away from town, and away from Runner's Valley.

Halfway out, they were nearly mowed down by a group of three racing madly _toward_ the chaos. Before either man could warn them of the terror, the three were already out of earshot.

**010101010110**

Hotstreak ran hastily from the burning buildings, turning every so often to judge the incoming Mammoths that were charging after him. Their heavy bodies plowed into anything in their paths, and with their frame and power, they barely seemed to notice anything that could cause them injury. He paused long enough to make a loud whistle, hoping that Charger could hear him–hoping that the horse was still alive.

Mammoths were ugly creatures–powerful. They were used for heavy-duties, and weren't very bright. Blayne had called them the oxen of the undead, and Hotstreak saw them as that.

Out of their sight, he turned quickly back into town. He was aiming to find Caine–Caine and that 'him' he'd always spoke of. If he found Caine...then maybe he could find a way to end all this madness. Redeem himself. Burning skeletons were settling throughout various areas–zombies tiring themselves out quick, their bodies turning useless with continued heat and flame. The sound of collapsing buildings made the air rumble. He was utterly thankful that spectres and Ghouls were absent; while spectres would have made a nuisance of themselves earlier, Ghouls were the tough bastards of the lot. They had brains, and they were more threatening than a well-educated cronie.

He was about to head out toward the entrance of the town, guessing that Caine would hide himself from the melee and watch from a safe distance when the shrill scream of a horse caught his ear. He turned, seeing Willies' horse squealing madly as flame burned along its back, and a zombie child gnawed at its neck, tiny arms clinging determinedly.

Because he knew the animal, Hotstreak leveled his gun at the horse and shot cleanly between the horse's eyes as it ran close. The animal hit the ground with a muffled grunt, legs flying over head and zombie child flying. He turned away from the dead animal to see Junior shouting up a furious storm, firing his six-shooter with one hand and dragging the boy with his other hand.

Hotstreak was surprised to see this act of 'compassion'–Junior was actually thinking of someone other than himself?

It was obvious the entire thing was awkward, as the kid couldn't move very fast, and Junior was drawing attention to himself by firing uselessly at a couple of Hounds that were hurriedly catching up to them. Hotstreak lost sight of Caine for this moment, rushing over to grab Junior's shoulder, getting his attention.

Junior almost shot him in panic, but recognized him with much expressed relief.

"I'll cover you," Hotstreak shouted above the roar of the fire, signaling the Hounds. He'd waste ammo, but it would give Junior some room to get him and the kid away from the chaos. Junior nodded without arguing, moving on.

The Hounds were anxious as to who to go after first, but their dilemma was solved when Hotstreak fired a few times at them, catching their attention. The shuffling animals headed toward him, and he deliberately slowed his pace to allow them some grounds closer. Seeing that Junior had disappeared around a farmer's shanty, he let that be the effort of his help. He turned, quickly running away from the Hounds, heading into the smoke and heat.

He pulled his bandanna up, covering his nose and mouth, breathing through that as he veered through flaming shacks, heading toward the south entrance of the town.

He lost the Hounds as they grew anxious of the heat, and ran with slowly building panic.

It didn't look as if Caine was anywhere close–! Once reaching the main road, he saw that it was empty–devoid of any remaining zombies and creatures. Staring into the darkness, he squinted, trying to locate any other incoming furies. He was so very sure Caine was behind this–he'd remember that singing from anywhere!

Giving a frustrated curse, he walked the road for a few miles, leaving the burning town behind. He gave a shrill whistle a few times, calling for Charger–the correl he kept him in was close.

He was starting to think he'd killed the horse by keeping him here when he heard the anxious squeals of animals behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw three riders heading his way–their mounts breathing hard.

He paused in mid-step once he recognized Kangorr, the black man looking around anxiously.

"You the cause of this, mon?" he asked, obviously labored over the hard ride.

"Was attacked," Hotstreak said sullenly. "He's here–he has ta be! I heard 'im!"

"Know that, pardner. Know that. But I'm not seein'...I'm not seein' him!"

"Unless he went around," Ebon suggested, just as tired. "We'll split, man."

"Do it," Kangorr ordered. "Send up a flare if you catch 'em."

The two split, taking their horses in different directions around the town as Kangorr looked once again at Hotstreak. "Need a ride?"

"...I ain't ridin' wit' you! Goddamn, he was _here_! I know he was!"

"He still could be. He could! I believe you! We came back, trackin' them Mammoths. They around only when he's around. 'Member?"

Hotstreak remembered–he nodded curtly, then looked over at the sound of a horse's hoofbeats on the dirt. Charger whinnied in stricken annoyance, tossing his huge head, panting loudly. He reached out to touch his stallion, an expression of relief on his face. He noted the scratches up and down the stallion's front legs, bending to examine them quickly.

Kangorr nudged his horse around, barking, "I'm heading back in! I need to see if they're there!"

Straightening, Hotstreak nodded quickly, then climbed atop of his horse. He grumbled at the lack of a saddle, but held onto Charger's mane, ushering him to follow after Kangorr.

Back in her carriage, Madelyne frowned. She pushed the lumbering Mammoths into faster action, pulling them away from there quickly. The surrounding timber prevented those wretched members of Blood, Inc. from seeing her getaway.

"They're here," she announced, shifting uncomfortably. She looked at Caine pointedly. "_All_ of them."

Caine, looking up from his knuckles, frowned at her. His eyes glowed briefly, then he chuckled. "So they are..."

"Tell them to leave me alone!"

Caine laughed. "Darlin', I doubt they'd listen to me. They're grown men!"

"I mean it, Caine. Tell them!"

Caine sighed.

**010101010110**

Shiv reached down, pulling Richie onto the horse, Junior anxiously searching the area for a horse of his own. The purple-haired man and his attire, his very background, would be questioned later. As the fire continued to burn, continuous shrieks of undead torment ringing throughout the valley, Junior could see that they'd just barely escaped.

"Find another! I see one close by!" Shiv shouted above the roar, sharp cracking piercing the rumble. He was pointing ahead of them, up the road. "Be right back!"

Junior immediately whirled, grabbing a hold of his horse's rein, making the animal protest vehemently. Both riders almost fell backward as the horse shifted anxiously.

"You _come back_!" the younger Alva snarled. "You better come back!"

Shiv gave him a stunned look, but nodded, managing to pull away from him. The horse shot forward, both riders swallowed up by the darkness. Junior anxiously paced, trying to catch his breath–every part of him felt extremely sore and overused. He hadn't had that much physical activity in a very long while. Climbing, running, fighting, pulling–he worked his right shoulder with some worry, having felt an abnormal pull while he had pulled Richie out of that shack he'd hidden himself in.

Just thinking of how the kid had hidden from him that entire time made him furious–utterly furious that he'd had to risk his own life to go back and find him.

Luckily, the kid hadn't a death wish, and had been looking for him as well. Amidst the chaos of the creatures' attack and the burning all around them, Junior had pulled Richie along to safety, hampered by the fact that he couldn't move very fast.

But all in all, they were _alive_–Junior could still pull ahead with his plans.

He looked up upon hearing the sound of horses approaching, watching a black man ride over. With a repulsed look on his face, Junior turned away, looking for Shiv and Richie, hoping that a horse was found. He wanted to depend on nobody.

"You here by yo'self?" the rider demanded, in a voice that commanded attention. Junior looked up at him, frowning at his appearance.

"No," he answered, a little sullen. "They gettin' me a horse."

"Who's 'they'?"

"My bo–some girl in a dress."

The black man scowled at him, his horse panting heavily. "He don't like bein' called that."

"An' I give a rat's ass," Junior shot back.

"You a mouthy piece of–!"

"Make somethin' of it, you–!" Junior quickly shut his mouth upon feeling the piercing tip of metal against his Adam's Apple–pressed too tightly for him to swallow. His eyes widened with surprise–he hadn't even seen the man move!

"You shut that mouth. Nobody be missin' you wit' that attitude."

Powerless, Junior felt his shoulders tighten, his face to draw with rising frustration. He kept himself from moving any further. He heard the approaching horses behind him, and wanted to move–but that blade stayed right where it was.

"Got it!" Shiv cried happily, drawing to a stop. He noticed what was happening, frowning. "Now, Ebon, what Kangorr say about scaring people?"

"Shut up. He was makin' me mad."

Shiv shrugged, holding out the reins of the horse he'd found–it had been struggling madly up ahead, leather stuck around the branch of a tree. Ebon let Junior go, glaring at him as the younger Alva rubbed at his neck, glaring back at him. The two members of Blood, Inc. watched as Junior climbed atop of the horse, and had Richie moving from behind Shiv to behind him.

Junior looked back at them, intending to leave with words to scathe and speak of his repulsion. "Satisfied? Can't let the lot of you get lazy, now."

He frowned. That wasn't what he wanted to say.

Ebon and Shiv looked at him blankly, unsure of what he'd meant by that. Junior cleared his throat. "Had to make you all work–like the dogs that you are."

His face expressed his surprise and confusion–_he_ wasn't talking. That wasn't him!

"White boy, you just makin' me mad–!" Ebon snarled, drawing out his double-barreled rifle, cocking it threateningly while Shiv gave a nervous chuckle.

"Where's Kangorr? It's _him_ I wish to speak to. The little lady has a message she wants me ta deliver," Junior continued, his face showing his distress. Much to his panic, his body lost control, losing out to someone that made him dismount.

Shiv held out his hand, waving at Ebon to settle. His eyes narrowed. "You _are_ nearby!"

"Much obliged if you would just pass on a message," Junior said, his face shifting into an expression of Caine's. "Just leave us alone–you cannot think that you can stop us. We're too much for you. Three men cannot stop an entire army. Your efforts are _pointless_. And, quite frankly, very irritating."

"That's what you think!" Shiv cried. "Just wait, you regret all of this!"

Junior shot him an irritated look, then looked at Ebon with enormous exasperation. "Please, for everyone's sake, send him to a few English classes. I cannot understand a _word_ he's saying."

Ebon smashed a hand into Shiv's face, preventing him from speaking further. "Why should we listen to you, huh?"

"Well, that's simple! Because I am the man!" Junior laughed without much humor. "Ah, but I digress. Just leave us alone. Just know your efforts are pointless. Peace out, bums."

Then, just like that, Caine was gone. Junior blinked, frowning, then started examining himself. His breath came anxiously as he touched frantically at his face and chest, unable to understand what had happened.

Ebon looked over at Shiv, frowning. "Where th' hell could he been?"

"We look everywhere! Kangorr and Red, they search thataway!"

"What happened to me?" Junior screeched. "_What happened ta me_?"

"Shaddup, honky," Ebon ordered. He looked at Shiv, nudging his head in the direction they'd left Kangorr, in. "Let's find 'im. We need to tell him what's goin' on."

As they headed off with nary a word at the others, Richie wondered to himself who 'the little lady' was.

**010101010110**

Virgil looked up when he heard the obvious sounds of a horse coming up. Hidden within a grotto, he, Adam and Randy were trying to rest their exhausted selves within the tranquil silence. It seemed normal out here–surrounded by birds, animals and the usual sounds of nature. On the other side of the mountains, it was as if the chaos they'd left had been nothing more than a bad nightmare.

He swallowed hard, hand on his gun as Adam heard the noise, too. Both of them readied themselves for an attack. The falling rocks came first as the horse struggled to stay upright, the steep hill dangerous with loose dirt that made it tough to navigate. Once they recognized Junior and the kid, they relaxed. Virgil set out quickly, escaping the safe confines of the grotto to make himself visible to them.

"Hey!" he shouted, startling Junior out of what looked to be a sound sleep. Both of them looked as if they were trusting the horse to make its own way through the area. Junior realized where they were going, and pulled at the horse's reins. At the clumsy sidestep it made in an effort to gain steadier ground, Junior slouched to the side, but both ended up falling off anyway. The horse lost footing, squealing as it rolled off to the side.

Virgil hurried down to them, wincing at the scene as he helped the kid to his feet, Junior swearing up a storm.

"_You_? You didn't die out back there?" Junior asked, angrily ripping off his bandanna to wipe at his face.

Virgil gave him a startled expression, but was too tired to snap back. He looked back at Richie, asking, "You okay, man? You hungry?"

"Don't you be gettin' all cozy, now! We're leaving as soon as I git that animal!" Junior rasped angrily, spying the horse's quick maneuvering down the rest of the hill. "Argh!"

Virgil frowned after him, hoping that the younger Alva would trip and fall the rest of the way. But today just wasn't his day–he looked at Richie. "You hungry? You okay?"

Richie nodded, looking anxiously after Junior. "I'm fine."

"What's your name, man?" Virgil asked, remembering that no one knew. He helped him toward the grotto, a little puzzled that Richie was resisting. "C'mon. It's all right. There's some food, here. Adam got us a couple of rabbits, an' we got some water."

"No, it's all right. I don't need any of that. Thank you."

"Just a bit. Just have _some_. Who knows when you're gonna be able to eat again, huh? An' look," Virgil pointed at the blood stain that had dried on his trousers. "Let's get that cleaned up, 'k? So you won't bleed ta death."

"No, it's fine. It's okay. I'll look at it later."

Virgil frowned at him, puzzled at his behavior. But he let go, walking ahead to see what he could get and push at him before they could leave. Adam passed him a few pieces of meat, still warm from the fire, and a canteen. Virgil hurried back, but stopped once he realized that Richie was moving carefully down the hill after Junior.

He sighed, lowering his arms. Walking back to Adam, he grumbled, "Do I act or smell like some kinda asshole, man?"

"Nope."

"You'da think that in situations like this? People would change, a bit."

Adam shrugged, picking at his share of rabbit meat. He tossed a sleeping Randy a nervous glance. "Some people never change, man. Anyway, who cares? Maybe he'll die, somewhere. 'Sides, it ain't as if we'll see 'im, again, huh?"

Virgil sighed again. "Nah. But...I just...I feel bad. For the kid, I mean."

"You'd feel bad for shit that didn't make it in the pot, Virgil."

"...Wha?"

"Heh. Anywho, just forget it. If Junior's so hard up on doin' things hisself, then let 'im. The kid wants to follow, let 'im. Prolly turn out to be just as rotten as him, later on."

Virgil shrugged, sitting. "Yeah...figures."


	15. All Falls Down

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Fourteen:  
>All Falls Down<strong>

Junior was exhausted–his mind was frantic over the situation presented to him.

They hadn't any supplies, no ammunition (he had one bullet left in his right Smith and Wesson), no warm clothing, no food, and he really hadn't any idea where he was going, _where_ they were, etc., etc. His right shoulder was racked with pain–he figured he must have pulled a muscle while pulling Richie out of that house–and every movement the horse made seemed to jolt the area, leaving a dull, throbbing ache that radiated down his chest and back.

The horse needed to be rested, but Junior was still panicked that the monsters could be somewhere close by, and he was determined to put distance between them and those things. Even so, the unfamiliar animal fought him the entire way–coming to a complete stop, veering off the main road and into the surrounding brush that offered no hiding spots if they needed any. They were completely alone, and Junior didn't feel like carrying any sort of conversation with his sickly companion. That made things a little more miserable–he could feel Richie trying to suppress heavy coughing, and could feel the unnatural warmth of his body heat; if the kid was sick, they had nothing to treat it. Junior wasn't a doctor, and there wasn't one in sight. Sickness was a ravaging trouble out in the West; and his plans pretty much needed the kid alive.

The weather was cold–wind tore through the open area with enough ferocity to have him shivering, the smell of moisture heavy in the air. The building storm that brewed over the mountains were leaving behind a heavy blanket of white, and currently blocked out the sun.

They were in hostile territory of Indians; mountain men were indifferent as to whom they made friends with, and Junior was completely lost; having never been this far from the world he knew.

Frankly, the younger Alva was miserable. He kept silent, staring glumly at the back of their horse's head. There was nothing to look up, for–they'd ridden for the entire day since leaving Virgil and the others, and the mountains were small and cold behind them. Before them was a wide stretch of plains and a sad set of rolling hills that offered more plains. To their left was the continuing stretch of mountains, but they were at least a day's ride from their position. The right offered the same option, but those were covered with snow.

Junior didn't care that Richie was leaning heavily on him, arms slung around his waist–the kid was asleep, judging from the even breathing he could feel against his back. Every so often, Junior would feel the spasms that came from suppressed coughing, and would hear the barking escape of forced air if Richie didn't cover his mouth or suppress it quick enough. He tried to ignore that, but he couldn't for very long when he felt the movement.

His stomach rumbled noisily over the sound of the cold wind, and the horse's hooves scraping over the loose dirt underfoot. His throat was dry, lips stiff–he looked up, glaring at the scenic landscape that surrounded them with both beauty and malice. He shivered, once again reminded that all they had was the clothes on their back–even then, they were nothing more than pants and button long-sleeve shirts. His hat had a tie on it, and had miraculously stayed in place that entire time in Runner's Valley. Richie didn't even have boots, bare feet swinging against the horse's stomach.

Junior squinted, taking in the land once more, mind frantically trying to make some plans. He was trying to recall any survival techniques he may have overheard from conversations with his cronies, or from those frequenting the bar. He was quite stricken in that he knew nothing of the land. He'd lived in settlements his entire life–!

This vulnerability, this helplessness made Junior sick to the stomach. His mouth tightened, eyes narrowing with forcible thought as he tried to think of any sort of plan that would work in saving them both. Unfortunately...without much ammo–just _one_ bullet–he wouldn't be able to shoot any game. He didn't know how to trap; and he wasn't so sure about fishing...not that there was any source of running water, nearby. Looking around anxiously, he didn't see any signs of rivers, streams, or lakes. They were at the edge of the plains, and moving further upward...his father was more experienced in that area than he was.

Junior found it excruciatingly horrifying that he'd relied on his father and the men more than he realized. To be _alone_...to be _helpless_...it was a new and terrifying feeling for him.

He was now on the _other_ side–he wasn't the one inflicting the torture, this time. It was Nature, and the Hell Spawn that spurned this hasty getaway.

The kid was useless, too. Straight out city, and Junior knew, just _knew_ that he'd have no idea on what to do, as well.

He clenched his fists, reins resting around the pommel of his saddle. How were they going to survive when neither of them had any clue on any sort of method?

He worried his bottom lip, face scrunching up with a troubled frown. Junior started to realize that he felt as helpless as the whores had looked upon realizing their fates. It was a heavy sting in his chest to recall their expressions, their grief–how they were broken down by Junior and his cronies. Junior was now on that receiving end; he had to be thankful, though, that he wasn't being forced into sexual acts. To have his dignity stripped away in that manner would have meant suicide. He would have never allowed that to continue.

He swallowed hard, once again scanning the horizon, hoping for some sort of miracle. His stomach rumbled noisily once more, and he curled an arm around his stomach, just above Richie's arms. The horse gave an anxious toss of its head, neighing with discovery. At once, Junior saw the distant blur of riders coming over a hill, away from the main road.

He felt immense joy and relief well up in him at that instant, picturing Casey and the others coming after them. Giving a barking sound of joy, he urged the horse forward to meet them in the middle.

The sudden jolt the animal made as he was prodded startled Richie, whose arms tightened with surprising strength to keep himself on the horse.

The horse veered off the traveled main road, running with caution upon the open plains, Junior too excited to meet the others that he didn't bother with looking for any dangerous obstacles that could injure the three of them.

"We got us some riders!" Junior said joyously, urging the horse faster. If they kept that pace, they'd meet the riders in an hour's time. He hoped that they continued their path in their direction, rather than veering off to some other unseen road. "Mebbe it's my father, lookin' for us!"

"What if it's not?" Richie asked with obvious reluctance, holding tightly onto him.

Junior elbowed him awkwardly, a frown on his face. "Don't be draggin' me down with that attitude of yours, boy. I don't wanna hear that shit at this point an' time!"

He thought he heard/felt a snort, but chose to ignore it–he was too exhausted to administer any sort of punishment for that derision.

His prayers were answered when it seemed that the group of riders continued to head straight for them–they were still a long way off, but each party was able to see them distinctively.

Some time had passed before Junior felt dawning realization in that he recognized none of the group of men that were heading straight for them. All of them were dirty, scruffy–leading and driving a pack of horses that were loaded with supplies.

Excited shouts filled the air, and horses panted hard with overexertion as the distance was closed.

Junior felt apprehension immediately, slowing his horse as they neared. It was a dozen men in that party, all of them loaded with weapons, and all of them obviously familiar with the terrain, surroundings. They were dressed warmly in variants of leather, cloth and animal skins–their hats were dark with moisture. Their animals were sleek and shiny with sweat, their smell reaching the pair before the posse did.

Apprehension turned into flaring despair and panic at the drawing of their guns, mean expressions weathering tanned, bearded mugs.

Junior cursed, and attempted to turn the horse, to try and make a getaway, but a flurry of surrounding gunshots forced his horse to rear, whinnying loud with protest. He almost lost his seat with the added weight of Richie holding tightly onto him, both of them panicked at the attack. They were surrounded immediately by the group of hollering men, some yipping with satisfaction and glee at catching them.

Junior caught his breath, looking with wide-eyed fear at the men surrounding them. It was obvious their intentions were of the mean sort. He could feel Richie's arms tightening around him considerably, pressing against him as tired horses crowded them physically, flanks smashing against their legs and their horse startled by the abrupt closeness.

One of the men, bearded and menacing, spit slick brown before studying them intently from underneath the brim of his hat. The smell that wafted from him was odious–those of the other men and horses were just as thick, making the pair of them wince.

Their horse moved in an agitated manner, sensing their hostility, the other horses giving sounds that seemed almost mean and taunting at the same time.

One of the men closest to Junior jerked at the reins, yanking them roughly out of his grasp. Another leaned out to snatch Junior's gun on his left hip, another taking the one on his right, leaving him to cry aloud with surprise and dread. His horse gave a restless whinny, jerking upward, its reins yanked from the side to keep the horse under control.

Suddenly, the first man guffawed, a loud sound that caught the others' attentions, drawing Junior's eyes toward him with a frustrated scowl.

"I _know_ you!" he exclaimed, guffawing again as he drew his horse near, so that the pair of them were actually looking into each other's faces. The bearded man was at least sixty pounds heavier than Junior, maybe a foot taller. The stench that wafted from him made Junior recoil, pulling away with a disgusted expression. Rotten teeth flashed him, foul breath making his eyes water.

The man looked around curiously, making a show of searching for others. He then slapped a man's chest, making the man grunt with the unexpected blow. "We know this one, Jess!"

Jess studied Junior. He then laughed, a screechy sound that was unforgettable in its piercing sound. "We do, huh? Hah! Looks like he outta luck, now!"

The first man grinned rotted teeth again, looking at Junior. He stared at the younger Alva with hostility, mustache twisting as his horse nipped at theirs. "You remember me, punk? Huh? Do I look familiar to you, you lil' shit?"

Junior stared back as he clutched the saddle's pommel, feeling wretchedly vulnerable amidst this crowd of men. Richie's grip hadn't let up, making it awkward for Junior to breathe. It hit him, then, the face of this man.

"Last year," the man barked, giving him a fierce glare. "You an' your posse decided to kick us out of your lil' shitty bar, cuz'a some trouble with one of your dirty whores! You remember?"

Junior's knuckles whitened, remembering the incident.

"Little gal Mirage," Jess drawled, smacking his lips. "Can't ever forget that one, eh?"

"Paul _always_ talks about that one," a man laughed.

Paul frowned, looking around again. Junior's face welled with frustrated red, breathing hard. "You all alone, boy," Paul then observed out loud. "Don't look like ya'll got someone to boss around."

"What's it feel like now, Alva?" Jess asked, cackling. "You all alone, brutha!"

"That's a nice horse you got there, friend," another man, Smith, said as he reached out to pat the flank of Junior's horse. "_My_ horse is getting tired of carrying my bag..."

Junior swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the pommel once more. "This here's _our_ horse," he muttered. Richie was starting to grow more scared as tension started to mount with suffocating pressure. Feeling all those hostile stares made him wholly uncomfortable, pressing his face against Junior's back and staring at the material that reeked of the younger Alva's musk and sweat.

"They ain't come far! Only got the clothes on their backs!" Paul announced. He _tsked_, giving Junior a fake look of concern. "You be the ones in the fire we saw, last night?"

"Still burnin'," one man noticed, looking beyond them, at the faint trail of color in the sky beyond the mountains Junior and Richie had left.

"Pity." But Paul grinned at Junior, an ugly smile on his weathered face. "'Fraid I still feel that pissed about bein' kicked around, for teaching that whore a lesson, buddy. I still wake up feelin' bruised and humiliated. All for slapping some little slut cuz she deserved it."

Junior grit his teeth. "You deserve that beatin'! Ain't no one but me slaps those whores!"

Paul guffawed again, others chiming in. He then quieted, the others following suit. He stared at him for a moment, tension building with immense force. Suddenly, at an unseen prompt, one man reached out to pull Junior from the horse. Richie nearly fell off as well, but someone pulled him back, keeping him seated.

Shouts erupted as Junior was forced away from Richie and the horse, one of the men using his horse to push the younger Alva forward. Richie was starting to panic, severely distressed as they were separated. The men that stayed glanced at him with casual regard, frowning at the fear on his face. The reins were passed away to another man, and the horse was led away from the group of men by another that grumbled with the task. Thinking that things were going to get bad, considering how violent they were with whores, Richie numbly wondered if he was going to get what Mirage had apparently gotten. The very thought made his blood run cold, for a blessed numbness to weigh down his limbs. The man gruffly warned him to stay put; Richie was too terrified to think of escaping.

He watched as Paul and Jess dismounted their horses, reins passed to someone still on their horse. Others followed suit, Junior looking around anxiously as he faced the group on his own. Paul removed his hat, slapping it against Jess's chest, cracking his knuckles. He was still grinning that ugly grin, menacingly standing over Junior with his taller height. Invading his personal space and enjoying Junior stumble back from him, obviously troubled with the situation.

It was a joy for Paul to intimidate someone that had abused his power over others. He had to laugh aloud once more, in pure delight.

"'Bout time I get my revenge!" he cackled. "Always wanted ta fuck you up, you snotty shit!"

The others chimed in with their shouts and add-ins, Junior looking around them anxiously. He swallowed hard, looking for something to interfere. He'd take zombies and monsters at that moment–facing men that really wanted to hurt him because of something he'd done made him entirely sick. He'd never given thought to revenge and retaliation from anyone. The situation was horrifying.

He was starting to realize how truly helpless he was without the others. He looked over at Richie, a little relieved in that they weren't paying any attention to him. He then looked up at Paul as he laughed again, head thrown back.  
>He threw off his hat and rushed at Paul, knocking him off his feet and into the dirt. Men cheered and roared their approval as the pair rolled about, throwing fists and expletives at each other.<p>

When they finally climbed back to their feet in a mess of dirt, scrapes and disheveled clothing, Junior was immediately pushed around by the others that had surrounded them. Paul regained his second wind, darting forward just as Junior caught his footing from a harsh shove, landing a clean punch upside Junior's chin. The audible crack made the men roar much more loudly in approval. Before Junior had a chance to recover from that, Jess kicked him with the heel of his boot, sending him down into the dirt. Paul jumped on him, raining punch after punch into Junior's face and chest while he tried to defend himself. Jess jumped in at that moment, joining Paul with the unfair advantage. The others jumped in as well, until Junior had six to seven men kicking and punching at him, refusing to let him leave their circle or even rise to his feet.

Richie looked away, sickened by what he saw. But he couldn't help but remember how Casey, Junior and the others had held him down that night, and taken their turns on him.

He looked up to see most of them turning away, satisfied with their physical violence. Anxiety tore through him at that point–wondering if he were next. Fear tightened his every limb, breathing growing short–he looked at Paul with a scared expression, hoping that it was only Junior they wanted.

Paul seemed to suddenly notice him, visibly startling.

Then he grinned, rotten teeth barely visible underneath that bushy mustache. Fear twisted Richie's gut, and he found it hard to swallow, unable to look away.

"How old are you, boy? 10? 12? Somethin' like that?" Paul asked, all attention on him. He walked up to the horse, staring up at Richie curiously.

Richie was too frightened to get indignant, but instinct told him to stay silent. Paul shrugged, waving at him to get off the horse. For a few moments, Richie couldn't move, but Paul gestured once more. Richie awkwardly slipped off, leg stiffening immediately, making him wince. He almost buckled at the pain, giving a light gasp as he clutched at his thigh. Paul noticed this, hands on his knees to face him, as if Richie was a small child.

"What's wrong with you, boy? Looks like yer hurt," Paul pointed out. He looked at Richie's leg, studying the dried blood over his pants. He looked back up at him, squinting, as he'd lost his hat during the fight, and the sun had managed to push through the clouds to warm the area briefly. His stench was much more odious than before, and Richie involuntarily covered his nose with both hands, turning away to try for some fresh air. Paul didn't seem to notice this, or ignored it completely. "Lost your momma an' poppa, recently? Did those big, bad monsters eat 'em?"

Richie was starting to feel indignant at the way he was being addressed, but the pain and fear kept him from showing that expression. He merely nodded, just to appease that line of questioning.

"Aw," one of the others muttered. "That sucks, kid."

Paul straightened, hands on his hips. He made a node to where Junior was lying, obviously unconscious. "_He_ pick you up?"

Richie nodded again, unsure of where this was going. Having all those eyes on him made him intensely nervous, enough to eventually start to ignore the pain.

Paul shifted, weathered face starting to harden. Richie swallowed again, looking at Junior, then back at Paul when he moved. The crack of palm connecting with his face made drove the breath out of him. His glasses flew, and he buckled, already covering his head with his arms.

"That's fer bein' stupid, and gettin' on with strangers," Paul growled. "'Specially _that_ one. Didn't your mommy an' daddy ever teach ya to never run off with strangers? You shoulda found someone else, 'steada some cold-hearted snake. Now, get up. I didn't hit you that hard. That was done to clear yer senses."

When Richie didn't comply, Paul reached down, grabbing an arm and hauling him to his feet. He forced down his arms when they whipped up to cover his head, Paul growling in frustration. Once he was facing Richie again, hands on both upper arms, he said with a tilt of his head, "Sorry kid, we can't help you. 'Fraid yer just gonna haveta wait here til someone comes along. Don't know how long that'll be."

"Prolly won't, anyway," Smith spoke up, mounting his horse. "Towns up north taken over, too. Maybe some savages'll take pity on ya and kill ya quick. Them Cheyenne're nice about kids. They kill boys _real_ quick. So's they won't grow up and make some kids to keep killin' them off. No sufferin' guarantee."

Paul laughed as he let go, walking over to his horse. He mounted, giving Richie a stern look. "Watch out for them mountain men. They don't care what sex comes along."

Some laughed with disgust, starting off in the direction Junior and Richie had come from. Paul and the others stared their way, preparing to take their horse along with them. With a flurry of dust, the posse rode off, laughing over their accomplishment.

Richie watched them go, then exhaled in heavy relief that he'd escaped basically unharmed. He looked over at Junior. He found his glasses quickly, then hurried over. Junior was lying face down in the dirt, his blond hair dirtied with various weeds and dust, his clothing covered with the same variants. He had a split eyebrow, blood darkening with dirt, trickling over his freckled skin. Blood dribbled from his nose as well, and that was only from the side profile.

Crouching, Richie winced at the dried blood, the splits in skin and contusions. Awkwardly, he managed to turn Junior onto his back. At the low moan of anguished pain, Richie quickly let him go, hearing the ugly cackling of sound under his palms as he'd done so. He figured Junior had a few ribs painfully bruised or busted, and he really didn't like the angle his left forearm laid in–as if completely disconnected from his elbow. While it gave him immense satisfaction in that someone messed Junior up good, Richie felt he shouldn't be lowering himself to that level.

Then he stiffly dragged Junior underneath the small shade of sagebrush, panting with effort. His leg throbbed at the activity, and he sat slowly.

He looked over the flat expanse of land, desperation hitting him hard. The mountains where they'd left the others was at least a day's ride. A storm was coming in–chilly wind swept through, bringing with it the smell of rain. He shivered, covering his mouth to hack into his hand, alarmed at what he heard.

He looked at Junior helplessly, wiping his hand on his pants, then back at the surrounding landscape. Thoughts of monsters, mountain men and Indians hit him, then.

He gave a sound of despair, leaning over Junior awkwardly, looking for some comfort. It was mind-numbing how they were expected to die.

**010101010110**

Junior didn't wake up–on the second night, Richie had to wonder if he was ever going to. His face was swollen with bruises and heady injuries–his left cheekbone had swollen considerably, dominating that side of his face. His eyebrow had shut his right eyelid, so both of the man's eyes were swollen shut. The corner of his mouth was grotesquely swollen and cut, swelling considerably so that the bottom lip overlapped the upper.

Richie had tried to waken the man; shaking his shoulder, calling his name, letting the rain fall on him. In the middle of no where, with the weather as it was, they were terribly exposed to the elements and to danger. He heard wolves in the distance, howling their ghostly cries, and he was terrified that they'd find them.

He was also terrified that Indians were somehow monitoring them, waiting for a chance to move in. From all that he'd heard, they were terrible creatures that wrought pain and destruction on any honest man passing through their territory. He'd heard it all.

Mountain men and more bandits made him frightened, too. Warnings of mountain men using anybody for sexual design made him think of them as terrible, savage creatures that resembled half animals. He knew better, but his imagination was running with him as he sat alone.

Snow was falling, and he huddled close to Junior, trying to keep him covered and to warm himself. It was a futile effort, of course–both of them weren't wearing appropriate clothing, and there was nothing to hide under. The sagebrush that he'd dragged Junior under wasn't that much of a shelter.

He was terribly despaired in that they were going to die slowly. From starvation, from the elements, from creatures and loathsome people.

He laid carefully over Junior's upper torso, his arms wrapped around his shoulder and underarm. With the cold and moisture, he couldn't smell urine anymore, the musk and sweat. Shivering tightly, he reflected how thickly silent it was when the snow fell. It was gentle and cold, landing fleetingly throughout the area, coating everything with its ghostly white. He stared in blind numbness at Junior's swollen features, trying to think of what to do. He couldn't move the man–not with his leg, not with his strength. There wasn't a way he could do that.

He coughed violently into Junior's chest, clearing out the phlegm that rattled his lungs. His body felt wholly weak–just the thought of moving the man exhausted him.  
>But he couldn't just stay...he couldn't just sit there and wait...the main road was miles off, and he figured if he walked to it, he'd run into someone passing through.<p>

He could get help for Junior...but he also feared running into the wrong people.

He heard the ghostly cries of wolves, sending violent shivers up his spine. They were closer this time than they were the last. He lifted his head, shivering from the cold as he searched the white-coated landscape for the fearsome animals. He couldn't see anything–the thick gray of light fog, dark night and falling snow made it difficult to see into any length of distance.

Blearily, he looked up at the sky, then back at Junior. Reaching up with stiff fingers, he adjusted the branches of weed over Junior's upper torso, furtively keeping out the falling snow from the unconscious man. He felt his shirt sticking to him, his bones feeling as if they were hardening into ice. He was entirely cold...his bare feet buried under dirt and the hem of his pants. Shaking hard from the cold, he leaned over Junior again, trying to think.

He was reluctant to leave him–afraid that if he did, he would lose all contact with life as he knew it. Junior was his only link with the world–the man that looked after him. He'd gotten close to the man through their ordeals–Richie clung to him because he had no one else to do so. He felt terrible at the thought of leaving him–of possibly killing him because he left.

He felt scared of being on his own. He knew nothing of how to survive out in the West. He was always surrounded by people–living in a city. He knew nothing of basic survival techniques. Unfamiliar with the area, unfamiliar to the way of life–his mind was a total blank when it came to shelters, food, water sources...

Feeling terribly, as if he were being torn apart from the inside, he leaned over Junior once more, pressing his face into his neck. This made Junior exhale heavily, but he did nothing more–breathing raggedly as he continued to sleep. Richie feared that he was already dead–that he'd never recover.

He couldn't just _stay_–! But he couldn't leave, either.

So he laid there, listening to the silence of the snow falling, waiting for more sounds of the wolves. Terrible pressure seemed to weigh in on him as he coughed, feeling his entire body shake with the effort. His thoughts were starting to become jumbled, and he had a hard time understanding himself.

He swallowed hard, tasting fire–his throat was raw. Lifting his head, he opened his mouth, catching snowflakes atop of his tongue. He reached out and scraped off snow from Junior's body and from his own, stuffing it into his mouth. He wished he knew what sort of roots were edible around here.

He looked at Junior again, calling his name and shaking his shoulder. He heard the crackle of cartilage and bone, and winced, pulling his hand back. Those men had beaten him well.

He wondered why he was still so compassionate to this man. He should have been happy to be free.

But as he thought about all the horrors he'd experienced, all the terrible bits and parts of human nature that he'd seen, Junior was his only root of sturdy familiarity that he felt safe with. It resigned him.

He sighed quietly, then started coughing. The howl of wolves broke the silence once more–they were further away, this time. Yapping commenced, a playful sort of sound that told him they weren't very interested in the dangers that _he_ faced. He thought of their warm, heavy coats and wished he'd had one of his own.

He looked at Junior, blinking away snowflakes that rested on his lashes. He lifted his head, staring out into the gray, his head buzzing with numbed torture. He kept thinking about the wolves...kept seeing imagined versions of mountain men. He thought of Indians wanting to scalp him; wanting to torture him for all the wrongdoings the other white man had done to them. He thought of the monsters.

He thought of his parents, and felt himself break at that instant, giving a low cry that seemed to echo throughout the darkness. It hurt to think about them, hurt to know that he'd never see them. Feeling lost, alone and in despair, he started to cry loudly over Junior's chest. He let it all out at that moment, ignoring Junior's views and thoughts of him crying. He figured it was allowed at this point–the man couldn't do anything about it.

They were going to die, anyway.

He started sobbing over the things he'd lost and experienced, over the things he wouldn't see or experience again. He cried over the cold, how his clothes clung to him, how sick he felt, and how scary mountain men probably were.

He cried himself to sleep, and awoke, surprised that he did. By this time, the snow had stopped, and it was a little lighter–as if some layers of the storm clouds had been pulled back. The land was covered in a light layer of snow–he blinked swollen eyes, wiping his nose as he looked around himself. He could see further–putting on his glasses, he was able to see that he could spot the rolling hills and mountain line. The glass fogged, and he pulled them off.

He looked at Junior, hearing his labored breathing. He thought of the wolves that were howling earlier, and swept snow and dirt from his feet.

Trying very hard not to think, he lifted slowly from the man, dusting snow from his shoulders, head and clothing. His bare feet instantly prickled from the cold–he pulled his hems down, covering them with pointless effort. But it was the best he could do at this point.

He struggled to not look at Junior as he stepped over him, and struggled to filter out the sound of his ragged breathing. He began to walk in the direction straight ahead of him, figuring he'd find the road in this manner.

He walked and walked and tried very hard not to look back, or think of what he was leaving behind.

**010101010110**

Ebon snorted, Shiv giving a nervous giggle.

Kangorr lowered his glasses to give the man a disbelieving look. Hotstreak was too preoccupied with worrying over his saddlebag to give the surrounding men any attention.

"I _said_," Paul repeated, aiming his rifle at the black man that refused to take him seriously, "git OFF your horses an' hand over them fancy-ass guns."

"Yer kiddin' me," Kangorr cried in disbelief. Leather creaked as he looked over at Ebon, who frowned at Jess as the man tried to reach for his scythes. "What th' hell ya'll think you're doin'? Don't you know who we are?"

"Buncha dead men, is all!" Smith shouted. "Kill 'em, Paul! The world needs less of that, nowadays! 'Specially those with mouths!"

Paul snorted, spitting slickly at the dirt.

Kangorr sighed, horse shifting restlessly. Someone tried to grab his reins, but he shot the man a darkened look, making him recoil instantly. Hotstreak sighed as he realized that the precious books in his saddlebag were going to be soiled by the wet weather. He looked over to ask Shiv for some cloth when he spotted a leather pack one of the bandits was wearing. They'd suit the task perfectly.

"I don't wanna hurt anybody here," Kangorr said, frowning at Paul. "We've got us a mission–we need to pass, and we need all that we got wit' us."

"You just don't get it, do ya?" Paul asked, jabbing his rifle at the black man. "I ain't tellin' you again! Get OFF your horses!"

Ebon sighed. "I'm hungry, man..."

It was at that point that Hotstreak realized that he'd never seen the man eat. He looked over at him, before a gun barrel could jab his face. "You are?" he asked in surprise. "What ya'll eat, anyway?"

Shiv heard the question, pushing a gun barrel from his back. "Ebon has special needs," he said gravely.

"Special? What's so special 'bout you?" Hotstreak scoffed at the annoyed black man.

Paul grit his teeth, realizing that none of them were taking them seriously. He decided to teach them a lesson as Ebon opened his mouth to answer.

He nodded at them, the others pulling out their guns, aiming at the four men. Kangorr looked back at Shiv, who caught the signal.

With an annoyed sound, the man let go of his reins, face suddenly reddening.

"Kangorr told ya'll that I'm a vampire, right?" Ebon said as all of Paul's men reacted with surprise and horror at having their guns torn right from their hands–all on invisible prompt.

Shiv grit his teeth, veins throbbing fiercely as he concentrated at a point beyond his sight, feeling the weight of the metal from all their guns. Steel jangled loudly as he forced them away from the group, tossing them onto the road behind them.

"Yeah, but...dunno what that is," Hotstreak said, used to Shiv's fantastic display of telekinesis. He'd gotten over the thrill of seeing it–while amazing, it was just something that he'd seen since he met the man. His mind was occupied with other things, anyway–he could focus only on one thing at a time. "Seriously. Ya'll never explained it."

Ebon sighed with heavy reluctance, hearing the snap of Paul's mandible as Kangorr sent the butt of his rifle against it. Shiv released his power, giving a weak yip of joy as he withdrew his swords, swiping at various saddle hitches.

Men fell from their mounts with cries of surprise and panic as Paul fell from his, knocked cold from impact. Kangorr used his horse to ram Jess's, whacking the man over the temple with the barrel of his weapon.

"Never mind, then," Ebon decided, eying one of the men that had fallen close-by. "Check it–knowin' you, you don't think much. You a mite dumb."

"Har, har," Hotstreak said sarcastically, scowling. "I ain't fuckin' dumb!"

"Then don't ask dumb questions!"

"I ain't! I'm just askin'!"

"It's a dumb question!"

"Well then–! _Yer_ dumb!"

"Ooh, such an insult..."

Hotstreak huffed, sliding off of Charger. He reached for the man with the pack he'd been eying, jerking him off his feet. He ducked behind him as his stallion grew tired of all the horses crowding him, kicking viciously with his back hooves. He heard and felt the thud the stallion's powerful hooves sent into the man, causing him to scream.

Hotstreak tossed him into the dirt, leaning down to rip the pack from his arms and shoulders, ducking at that instant to avoid his own horse's kicks. Charger bucked and charged others, basically making himself into a terror as other horses scattered.

"Your horse is so fucked up," Ebon decided aloud, sliding off his horse. "Just like you..."

"Flattery gets you no where, buddy."

Kangorr looked up from his task, Shiv tired from his display of mental manipulation. Many of the men were scattering with panicked fright, horses running free as their saddles slid from their bodies. The supplies that the group of bandits had gathered were lying around, ripe and ready for the taking.

"You two, knock it off," he complained tiredly. From the moment they met, he felt that Ebon and Hotstreak baited each other. There was tension between them, causing a sort of discomfort between the group. "Make yerselves useful, man! Get those horses."

Shiv hurried off on his horse to chase down a couple, pretending to charge a few of the fleeing men in the process. Kangorr went to pick up the abandoned weapons, dismounting to load his horse with several rifles, and passing Ebon the rest. The black man began gathering weapons to stow on his horse, Hotstreak complying to load himself up, as well.

Kangorr then mounted, and chased down a few of the fleeing men, using his horse to correl them. He aimed his rifle at them, commanding them to stand still.

Hotstreak and Ebon stopped elbowing and baiting each other as Shiv came back, panting as he held the reins of a couple of horses. Seeing that the group of once powerful bandits were properly scattered, Kangorr dismounted. He and Shiv began to fix and tie supplies onto the horses, leaving the three men to stare at them with anxious regard.

Ebon nodded toward them, gesturing at Hotstreak to follow him. "I'll show ya...y'know, for someone like you, you ain't all that clever. You'd need all the demonstration you can get before gettin' it right."

"Aw, man, fuck you," Hotstreak complained. He was stuffing the books into the pack, visibly cheered that they fit. He then adjusted the straps of the pack, shrugged off his Hound coat, and slung it onto his back. He then slid the coat back on as Ebon reached the three men that stared at him in curious regard.

Without saying anything, Ebon reached for the first, kicking his foot right out from underneath him. Hotstreak was a little puzzled, seeing the other two men start to defend their friend–he drew his guns and barked at them to hold still, smirking when they complied.

Then he watched as Ebon jerked the man up by his hair, tilting his head to the side.

When he saw the man lower his face into his neck, he was immediately disgusted.

"You _homo_?" he asked in bewilderment.

Ebon jerked up with insult, intending to snap at him when his face suddenly crossed with frenzied determination. He opened his mouth and sank his teeth into skin and muscle, the man eking out a frantic cry. It was quickly silenced, facial expression turning slack as Ebon started to noisily drink the life essence from him.

The other two men were quite aghast at this display–Hotstreak's face was wrinkled with intense puzzlement and disgust, unsure of what he was seeing. Was Ebon _chewing_...? Was he sucking on _blood_...? Was he...?

Kangorr finished loading, tossing them a glance. Prompting his horse toward them, he asked in a commanding tone, "Ya'll see anybody passin' through here? Anybody? Men? Boys?"

The two men looked at him with intense confusion, then back at Ebon and their friend. Hotstreak was bewildered the paling look of the man's skin, the way he seemed to die from the intense hickie he thought Ebon was giving him. The smell of copper was odious.

"_HEY_!" Kangorr barked, catching the pair's attention. "You seen anybody?"

It took awhile, but one of them stuttered, "Yeah...yeah, we did. Ah...we...there was–a man. A man Paul hated. Beat the crap out of him. They the only two we passed through here. We come in from Fort...from the military-base town up north...didn't pass no one for days til them."

"Older man?"

"Ah...he...God, what're you _doin_' to him?"

Ebon straightened, smacking his lips. The man was dead–Hotstreak stared down at the slack features, the pale skin. The black man licked his lips in a way that was suggestive and gratified, sending an uneasy sense of heat through him. Hotstreak was disgusted that he'd feel such a way for a man he didn't even like.

Ebon looked at the other two, and they noticed it. Terrified, they started to back away as they stared at him, seeing the blood of their companion smeared over his dark skin.

"E, hold on, man," Kangorr ordered. "Let me talk to 'em, a bit."

"_C'mon_, man," Ebon complained, uncharacteristically eager and whiny. "I haven't eaten in fuckin' days!"

"Just–_hold_ _on_!" Kangorr repeated impatiently, looking at the pair. "What _man_?"

"God, we're gonna die–!"

"_What MAN_?"

"Dunno! Some man–! Had–had a boy with him! Small one."

Eagerly, Kangorr leaned closer, the others stilling as they listened intently. "Tall? Black hair? Looks almost Indian?"

The two looked at each other, then shot him puzzled looks. "No. Blond, 'bout...this tall. Was kinda a dick. His father owned some town down some South...some whore bar, I guess. Dunno. Paul and Jess were talkin' about some whore bein' all slapped by Paul, and this guy–this guy and his posse fucked them over for it."

Kangorr and Ebon visibly sagged with disappointment, but Hotstreak thought suddenly of the Alvas, of Richie–the boy whose name he didn't even know.

"_Alva_?" he questioned, eager. "Junior? His name was Junior?"

The man thought about it, then nodded tightly. "_Yeah_! Yeah, I think! Paul called him, uh, Alva! He had a boy wit' him–kinda small. Like...like he were nine, or ten...somethin'..."

"Where? Where'd you–?"

"Paul took their horse! They beat Alva good, man. Don't think he lived, anyway. Left the boy. Somewhere, 'bout maybe...maybe two days' ride from here," the man said quickly, trying to think. He pointed off in the direction he remembered, and Hotstreak stared over with heavy disappointment at the rolling hills, the expanse of _nothing_. Surrounded by mountains, he knew the area was hostile with Indians, bandits, and wildlife. "Did't think nothin' of it, either. Just...just couldn't _take_ 'im. Ain't got no knowledge for lil' kids..."

Kangorr sighed tiredly, looking up with surprise as Hotstreak quickly turned, calling for Charger. His brow furrowed with puzzlement as Ebon attacked the man, making him scream with startled fear, the other recoiling with a myriad of pleas to escape his friend's demise.

"Where ya goin', man?" Kangorr asked as Charger hurried over, shaking his mane with satisfaction.

Hotstreak mounted him quickly, adjusting himself onto the saddle. He shot Kangorr a puzzled look. "I'ma go find the kid."

"_What_? We're on Caine's ass, man! He's prolly dead, anyway!"

"Nah." Hotstreak shook his head, but he feared that notion with a twist of his gut. He didn't want to see that kid as a zombie. _He didn't want to_.

"You cain't just _leave_!" Kangorr barked, turning to block Charger's path with his horse. His unfortunate mount received the stallion's teeth on his flank, and both animals pranced restlessly around each other as Hotstreak shot Kangorr an annoyed look. "We're _right there_! We're right on them, man! We could _end_ all this! You cain't just keep up an' leavin' all the damn time! We gotta make things right!"

Hotstreak studied him for a few moments, feeling shamed that Kangorr obviously didn't trust his motives. He felt guilt hit him upon remembering the day of the train robbery, the trail of devastation Caine and this 'him' had wrought upon the West. He frowned, exhaling heavily as he looked off into the direction the man had pointed.

They'd gone in a north-eastern direction away from Runner's Valley–the man had pointed off to the north-west. A 'two-day' ride, he'd said.

Frustration lit his veins, and his knuckles whitened as he thought of the kid–injured and alone. With possibly a dead man at his side. He kept thinking of the way he smelled, the way he blinked sleepily at him. The way he cringed, the way he made Hotstreak feel so many different things.

He grimaced, the confliction of things pulling at him making it difficult.

Kangorr didn't know his torment. Hotstreak never spoke of the boy. He stared at the redhead intently.

"_You can't leave_," he repeated evenly, drawl subdued. "We got us a job to do. You an' me were involved from the beginning. We _haveta_ do this–! _We have to do this_, Red!"

Hotstreak felt desperation pull at every muscle–every minute spent doing this with Kangorr, was every minute away from the kid. Charger pranced restlessly, sensing his conflict. He tossed his thick head with a whinny, then focused on trying to bite at Kangorr's gelding.

Shiv suddenly laughed at something beyond them, breaking that spell. "That guy poofed!" he howled. "Do again! Do again!"

Ebon shot him a disgusted look, wiping his mouth–second man down. He was feeling very full and content, shooting the third man a look. The third man promptly wet his pants at the attention.

Hotstreak looked at Kangorr, mouth tightening under his mustache. "Sorry," he then said gruffly, steering Charger into the direction the men had come from. "I gotta do this."

Kangorr angrily prodded his horse after him, shouting, "You cain't just keep runnin' away, damn you! We gotta job to do!"

Charger was faster than his mount, pushing hard as Hotstreak fought to ignore Kangorr's shouts. As they raced off, Hotstreak felt his guilt and abandoned duties chase after him.


	16. The New WorkOut Plan

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

A/N: I'm back. Had major things going on, like, oh, working nights and skooling during the days. I was half dead but I'm back. Prepare for more chapters! Yup…definitely that much historically accurate. The madness will begin in a few chapts. Def enough to make one go…"Ew…what did I just read? I thought I was in the Static Shock section of the world…?"

**Chapter Fifteen:  
>The New Work-Out Plan<strong>

The voice that commanded him to wake up made him jolt. As he did so, everything sang with pain. His ribs gave him the most trouble.

Blinking heavy eyes, Junior focused first on Randy, then on Adam. His head pounded with a continuous throb that was only enhanced by the bright white of snow around him. He lifted an arm to cover his eyes, groaning, but that arm was wrapped in a sling, and throbbed terribly. More pain raced up his limb, making him growl as he strove to rein in the sudden rise of nausea.

Both men were throwing some blankets over him–making him realize that he was on a travois of some sort. He looked around with some surprise, wondering where they had found two pieces of wood long enough to accommodate his six foot form, and how they'd managed to tie a strong piece of buffalo hide to the two pieces to hold his weight. His body had been wrapped with stale smelling blankets that reeked of male, and he wrinkled his nose at the sour smell. Among these were the furry warm pelts of various animals, but they were a welcoming warmth.

His body felt burned in various areas, mostly in those exposed to the elements. His nose burned, his ears feeling oddly numb. He wanted to move, touch and examine himself, but his arms were tied close to his body. _That sling held his hurt arm tighter than necessary_, he thought.

He could face the white landscape at an angle from the ground, two horses shifting slightly with the added weight that they were going to pull. His tongue pushed at his two front teeth, wiggling them–groaning as one came away. Hastily, with his other hand, he pushed it back into his gum, hoping that it would reattach, the way Jerry's did that one time when–

He immediately sat up, and hated that mistake, too. His ribs immediately protested action, making him cry out and growl with impatient regard.

"Chill out, man," Adam said gruffly, shooting him a venomous look. Randy made sure that Junior was strapped in securely, then signaled that his end was done.

Adam straightened, giving Junior a fairly fed-up expression. "We're taking you to the nearest town. Ya'll don't have any idea where the kid might be?"

Junior felt the world fall away from him, staring at him bleakly. The two men waited, and he didn't want to think that he was alone–he took in the snow, realizing that it had been some time since Paul and the others had found them. He glanced from side to side, watching Virgil approach him, pulling on a long jacket, giving him the same expression Adam had.

Junior realized that he was alone–his plans fell away. He stared out at the snow, wondering just how long he was out–what happened to his companion.

"No," he croaked. "He weren't with me?"

"No," Randy replied while the other two looked completely dejected. "We almost never seen you. Ran right over you. What happened?"

Junior thought of how the group of men had surrounded them; he felt wholly responsible for whatever fate Richie had come to. _He didn't even know his name_.

"Maybe _they_ took 'im," he suggested, throat thick and heavy. He coughed into his shoulder, clearing out the sickness in his chest. "Those men. They prolly felt sorry for him. They prolly took 'im!"

"_Who_?" Virgil asked, his tone full of venom.

"He all by himself–! He didn't even look good, man!"

"Kid didn't even have shoes," Virgil then added, grumbling.

_Oh, they were a sheltered bunch_, Junior thought. _So much anger for one missing kid_...

"Buncha guys..." Junior trailed off sullenly. He looked away from them, glaring at the snow. The others looked at each other, then shifted. Someone's horse whinnied, and Junior realized how utterly still and silent it was around here. It was as if nothing wanted to move.

He had many questions and concerns, but he felt he couldn't talk at this moment. Upon realizing that he was basically alone, that he'd never find his father or show up that old man's plans with some of his own, Junior realized that life was bleak. He didn't look at any of them as they asked more questions, persisting–wanting to find the kid.

Once Virgil realized that Junior wasn't going to talk anymore, Adam sighed heavily. He tugged at his coat. "Let's get going, guys," he said with heavy reluctance. "Sooner we can drop this one off with someone, sooner we can get back to our lives..."

They mounted their horses, Virgil scanning the horizon once more. Could they have missed him, somewhere? Maybe he was buried under snow, or–what if he were still alive, and had only wandered away for a little bit?

While reluctant to leave, Virgil agreed with Adam. Virgil hadn't been impressed with Junior's character–especially now. To him, Junior was just another pathetic thug that worried only about himself–frankly, people of Junior's nature utterly exasperated and encouraged Virgil's ire. He threw an annoyed glare back at the beaten man, not really caring whether or not Junior was comfortable. As far as he knew it, Junior deserved those wounds.

Nearly a day and a half later, they had reached a very small settlement. There were people already there, and while Randy quietly explained that it was a train depot, not really succeeding in any other manner, they were being approached by men carrying torches and weapons. Junior sat up slightly to look around himself as they were surrounded.

There was an aura of desperation and desolation in these people. The town reeked of waste and sickness. It was a collection of stained tents and listless shanties–the train depot station had been ransacked for its lumber, and the rail line had been raided for its ties. Most of the men facing them were thin, gaunt–their eyes were rounded with scheming examination, and made him feel uncomfortable. They were animals, really, and Junior felt that sickening sense of helplessness and vulnerability again. He hated those feelings.

Recognizing none of these men, he laid back down and listened to the others talk, his fingers clutching inward, anxiety racing through him.

The jolt of the horses stopping made his head pull forward.

Virgil had a bad feeling about the town, and was eyeing the weapons carefully as Randy chose to speak, first. He was seeing everything Junior was, and despite himself, he felt the need to leave. He reached back to rest his hand on his saddle bags, of his supplies that was tied securely to his horse. He noted many interested eyes taking in his horse, and heard Sparky snort with apprehension. He could feel the gelding's anxiety match that of his own. He pulled forward to rub the Arabian's neck with some comfort.

"Lookin' for a doctor," Randy said, facing the single man that approached them on foot. "Got us a hurt man, here."

The silence was thick as many pairs of eyes studied the four men, and even Junior grew apprehensive as he frowned at the men glaring down at him.

The man on foot took his time before answering, sweeping his torch from side to side to look closely at their horses, their meager supplies. Sparky was considered for examination, men murmuring as a couple ventured forward. Virgil pulled his horse in closer to the others, hoping he wouldn't have to use his guns.

Venomous looks were thrown at both Virgil and Adam. "We don't serve _their_ kind around here," he muttered.

Virgil threw up his hands in exasperation, and stilled when the locks of many guns shattered the silence. Holding his hands up in surrender, he kept himself quiet as Adam hissed at him to keep still.

Randy sighed, obviously weary by the journey–by this practice. He gave the man an even look. "We're bein' attacked by demons and zombies, and ya'll are still uppity about black men? What th' hell's _wrong_ wit' you people?"

The man spat angrily, eyes narrowing. He stepped away from their horses, slashing his torch through the air. "Think you better leave, mister. We're a peaceful people–don't want no trouble."

"What about this guy?" Virgil asked, gesturing back at Junior. Junior, staring at the men, didn't want to be left with them.

"I don't wanna stay," he announced, shifting in the travois. "They look fucked up."

People looked offended at this, and the man gestured at them to get moving.

"He needs medical attention–!" Virgil insisted, ignoring Junior's words.

"I'll live! I don't wanna stay here!"

Virgil shot Junior an annoyed look, but followed as Randy and Adam began to prod their horses forward. The men began shuffling into their path, and horses were reined in. Junior sat up slightly, looking back at them.

Adam could sense a feeling of impending doom as hungry eyes took in their horses, their supplies. While the first had wanted them to leave, these men didn't want them too. He doubted it was because they wanted to invite the four for dinner...

"we're just gonna go on our way," Adam said carefully, feeling incredibly tense as guns were turned their way, flame finding steel.

"Leave them supplies, mister. Real neat an' quick," one of the men instructed. "Got us children to feed."

"We've got none," Virgil said quickly. "We hunt every day. Small game!"

"Quit yer lyin'! Give us your supplies!"

"I want that horse," another said, reaching for Sparky's reins. Virgil pulled back on the reins, frowning as the group started crowding them.

Seeing this, Junior muttered to himself, sliding off the travois quickly. He hit the snow covered dirt with a pained grunt. Virgil turned to see what he was doing, and somebody grabbed Sparky's bit, shifting quickly to grab his reins.

"Shit!" he cursed, Sparky rearing as more people crowded upon them, trying to reach for their supplies.

Adam and Randy quickly untied the travois, and Junior hurriedly crawled up behind Randy, with strength that came from somewhere within. Adam used his horse to push people out of the way, hitting it quickly for safety. Virgil followed, withdrawing his twin Colts, and that's when shots began to fire. He felt the heated warmth of a bullet whiz by his ear, and began firing randomly throughout the crowd–hoping that he didn't hit anybody. Soon, the Arabian was tearing through the darkness, charging after the other two.

Adam was grumbling low to himself, their horses slowly walking along the flat road. The clouds above had parted to allow the moon's light to shine down, millions of stars twinkling brightly above them. Randy winced, struggling to keep upright as Junior was passed out against his back, clinging determinedly to his gunbelt.

"Man, that was fucked up!" Virgil declared, his voice shattering the silence. "You'da think, that wit' all this shit goin' down? That racism would be the furthest thing from their minds!"

"This place hates Injuns, Mexicans, blacks," Randy supplied. "They got them signs up everywhere. No Dogs Allowed."

"Yeah, but..."

"Ain't nobody change that much. 'Specially with this shit. I mean, they was all crazed, anyway."

Virgil scoffed, shaking his head. He stared up at the revealed sky, shivering. "Just wish I knew where Sharon was, man. Just keep wonderin' if she's out there...I don't wanna think that she's one of them things. I'd rather that she's all normal."

Adam agreed with a low murmur. Virgil looked over at him, sadly looking over his friend.

"She all right, man," he then said softly. "Ya know that gal. She, like, don't take nothin' lightly. More steadfast than...than anythin' I know."

"Yeah...just...sometimes, I get down about it. Honestly. Cuz...I dunno. Look at us. _We_ struggling. She's the only one unaccounted, for. Don't know where she was, don't know where she goin'."

Virgil sighed, thinking of the day Hotstreak had to kill Robert. He thought of the man walking up the road from the timber mill, frowning. "Unless she all went with pops to the mill, that day. I...I wonder if he had to do her in, then got bit–"

"Don't think that way, man! Just...just _don't_."

All three lapsed into silence. Their horses negotiated the cold trail with the loud clomping of their hooves, snorting as various night animals sounded their existence around them.

Virgil sneaked a glance over at Junior, then whispered, "What we gonna do wit' him?"

"Shoulda just left 'im," Adam muttered sullenly.

"I don't trust him. I don't like him."

"Thinkin' no one does."

Virgil mulled over the problem for a few moments, then shrugged. "We'll just find another town. Drop him off, there. Let him fend for himself. We can't take care'a him."

"Somebody whupped him good..."

"Bastard deserved it, anyway. See how _he_ likes bein' beat all the damn time. Drove me crazy when he was yellin' an' hittin' on that kid." Virgil's lips tightened. "Bet he's dead, an' the bastard just lied about it. He prolly ate him."

Adam snorted, then shot him a look. "Doubt it. No Alva wants ta dirty their hands."

"Do people eat people?"

"I heard o' that," Randy supplied. He winced, shifting as he struggled to keep Junior from smushing him. The man kept snoring away, dead weight against his back.

"It'd be gross. But I don't care fo' this one. Soon's we find a town, we're droppin' him."

"Right on."

"We heading up to French territory, Randy?" Virgil asked curiously.

"Bout...maybe three weeks' ride from the nearest."

"You live up here?"

Randy told him briefly of his past.

Still pretending to sleep, Junior sullenly hated how guilty he himself felt for being inadequate.

**010101010110**

He didn't remember falling, nor falling asleep. But there was excruciating pain flashing up and down his limbs, and his skin felt like it was on fire. Through the thick haze that felt warm and peaceful, he heard the faint mumble of sounds that coaxed him from that warm haven that he felt reluctant to leave. Things started to come alive, again–though he didn't remember ever dying, or even coming to this point. He had a vague remembrance of looking around himself while he was walking, and seeing bleak white everywhere he looked. He faintly remembered leaving Junior–then nothing more.

The pain made him jolt, pulling further away from the heaviness that grew steadily cold and torturous. It was as if his skin were being burned–sharp tingles of flame seem to lick up his arms and legs, and even sweep across his face and ears. It flayed at the surface, and seemed to jolt every cell.

He wanted to pull away from that pain, but he couldn't even get himself to move at his own prompting. The pain was something he hadn't felt, before, and was quite agonized. Was he burning alive? _How_? _When_...?

He registered fingers in his hair, a brief shake. Then words that were blurred and unrecognizable. He had no idea what they were saying; he tried to focus on the sounds, realizing that his ears must not be working, because no matter how focused he was, the words just didn't clear with him.

Until he realized that it was another language.

He inhaled deeply, wanting to awaken and refocus–wanting to know what was going on. But Richie's body continued to disobey him, and he could only listen to rapid, alien words and endure that pain.

Unexpectedly, though, he awoke–the pain wasn't as bad, through, and he was fully aware of the warmth. He blinked open heavy eyelids, frowning at the dull light cast around him. It was a hazy sort of glow, dulled by orange and brownish shadows. He could hear the soft sounds of movement all around him, and realized that he was covered in fur–the smell of the animal's pelts on him made him sneeze, registering the heavy, painful feeling in his chest.

The pelts were lifted away from him, and he was treated to a full, round face–small eyes, harsh hook nose, stern chin, thin lips; the woman's braids almost smacked him as she bent over him, saying something he didn't understand.

Realizing that the woman was Indian, that he was in a tent, made him incredibly tense; all the horror stories hit him, and even as he panicked over being scalped, tortured, burnt–common sense asked him why they would bother with warming him in the first place.

Two more faces bent over him–one was that of a younger woman's, scornful; the other was that of a cheerful, delighted woman, giggling as she said something that made the other women laugh uproariously, straightening from him. Their laughter filled the tent, amplified by their surroundings, prompting questions from the outside.

Richie thought they were delighted by his future torture; he cringed, wanting to hide, but every muscle in his body told him they were very sore. The third woman stopped laughing, wiping her almond shaped eyes, which were nearly hidden by the high, round fullness of her strong cheekbones. None of the women were beautiful–their bone structure was too harsh, too proud. If it weren't for their musical voices and from the way they were dressed, Richie would have thought they were men dressed as women.

She bent over him, pulling the pelts back up and over his shoulders, tucking them tenderly around him while saying something teasing and tender–sending the other women into more gales of laughter. He winced.

Then they left the tent, replaced by males that were dressed in warm buffalo hides, their long braids covered with a light layer of snow. The pelts were ripped from Richie, and he cringed at the severity of their stoic expressions, the fearsome look in their black eyes. One was especially menacing–there was a wicked scar across his hawkbeak nose, and part of his right ear was missing. The others were just as menacing with their stern stances, their quiet mannerisms.

Richie didn't know what was going to happen–maybe they were going to skin him right there, sacrifice him to some God that they followed earnestly. He heard the stories–he read the history. He just knew they were going to take their revenge on them.

Then, the flaps over the tent opening were flung open, that third woman and the first crawling in, saying something that made a couple of the men snort, forgetting they were supposed to be menacing. At the odd sounds they made, the men burst into laughter, including the scary looking one.

The third woman gestured at Richie continuously, laughing and talking–she had many of the men laughing once more, and this time they looked at him with curious delight and smirks; they looked at him as if they knew him, and were waiting to share a joke with him.

The first man snickered, reined in his cheerful expression, then cleared his throat as he crouched in front of Richie, scarred hands pulling the pelts up his waist. The woman crouched with him, and Richie realized that the pair of them were very similar in appearance–they had to be siblings.

"I speak English," the man said, cheery grin in place. His teeth were white, a stark contrast to his tanned red skin. "No worries, man. How you feeling, eh?"

Richie was astounded that he was speaking to him; astounded that they were so cheerful in wanting to kill him. He shifted, realizing that he wasn't wearing his clothes, but the heavy warmth of hide that was similar to theirs. The woman was examining his arms–the bitemarks from Angel, and his fingertips. He looked back at the man, uncertain of how to proceed. The woman murmured something, making him roll his eyes.

"This is my sister. Her name's Spotted Deer. Mine is Kills-Many-White-People. You can just call me Kills, for short, okay? She all feeling jealous cuz you're her competition." He stressed the last word with joking mirth. As if it were a complicated word.

Richie was confused, catching the mock-resentful look she tossed him upon hearing her name in English. Then she laughed, swatting her older brother across the head. He looked pained.

"Anyway, we been find you in the middle of no where, man! You all alone?"

Richie pulled his hand back from Spotted Deer, who then began to examine his face, touching him so carefully and tenderly that he felt embarrassed by her attention.

"You got some frost bite, man. You ain't got no shoes! Where your shoes, at? We been out this way, trackin' some deer, an' then my friend here," Kills-Many-White-People gestured at a stout, barrel chested man that waved cheerfully from the back, "his name's Running Elk, he been see you walkin' along. Then you killed over. We thought you were dead. Where you from, man?"

It was astonishing how easily the man spoke to him, how suddenly and easily the mood had changed from earlier. Richie realized he wasn't going to be killed–not with how friendly they were, how compassionate their expressions were. He was bewildered enough to answer automatically, "New York."

The others immediately began mimicking his words, his accent–the woman said something sullen, and they burst into laughter, her included. The other woman added something that made them laugh again. Were Indians supposed to be this cheerful? This was a total difference from what Richie had learned and seen of the few he had seen since he'd arrived out here.

"Noo Yawk," Kills-Many-White-People repeated, thoughtfully. Then he laughed. "It sounds like–! Never mind. Uh...so...you been walking long?"

Richie thought of Junior, wondering with desolation if it were even worth to go back for him. He didn't even remember where he'd left the man–he figured Junior was dead, and decided to leave it at that. He shrugged, feeling the sharp, shooting pains of skin revitalized by warmth. He wondered how they managed to save his limbs from the bite of the cold, and wondered if he was missing patches of skin.

"Well, it's kinda weird, yanno? I mean...what are you?"

_If he said ten or thirteen_...

"Fifteen? Sixteen?"

He answered quickly, relieved that someone had come close to his age.

"_Damn_..."

Richie sullenly watched the men sigh or cheer, exchanging what looked to be bones and small animal spines amongst each other. Kills-Many-White-People handed over a single strand of beads from around his neck to the woman that smiled smugly at them all, taking some other pieces of treasures from the other. Spotted Deer laughed suddenly.

Kills-Many-White-People returned his attention to him. "I mean, most people just _die_ walkin' around that area. Especially without supplies, man. What are you, like, some kinda _messenger_?"

The first woman mentioned something, and everyone just stared at Richie with disbelieving expressions, looking entirely puzzled and stunned.

The woman burst out laughing, the others following suit and shouting loudly with negatives and comments. Richie sighed–it was good that they weren't planning on killing him, but the constant laughter and mirth was getting to him.

Spotted Deer touched his shoulder, eyes scrunched with concern. "All by self?" she asked in a puzzled tone, in heavily stilted English. Her brother looked proud of her.

"No...I was with another, but...he might have died." Richie quickly explained Junior's run-in to Kills-Many-White-People, who listened intently, then relayed the story to the others in their language. Many of them shrugged and looked entirely nonchalant about the missing man–Kills-Many-White-People shrugged.

"Aw well, too bad for him, ennit? I mean, if he didn't get to live, then–one less white man to worry about. Don't worry, kid–we ain't about to do you in. I mean, if you lived through that, and–oh, besides, we gotta keep ya safe and snug!" He shared a knowing expression with the others, who looked simply delighted as they shared conspiratorial smirks. He looked up at the first woman, gesturing at her. "This is Turtle Moon. She'll take care of ya. Our elders wanna meet you, too, but Turtle says you ain't well enough to go out in the cold, yet. She your new momma-bear, so I suggest you listen to her."

Kills-Many-White-People leaned in with a low whisper, hiding his moving lips with his hand. "And, word of warning? You _eat_ what she cooks. If you don't...dude, it won't be pretty."

He flashed a charming grin at the woman, who smiled with some hesitation. The men began to file out from the tent, Spotted Deer sighing as she drew the pelts back over Richie, patting his shoulder.

Kills-Many-White-People rose, stretching out the kinks in his back.

"Relax, man," he then said. "You with good people. We can't let kids die, no matter their skin color. 'Sides, I got a friend lookin' for ya."

Richie was puzzled, looking at him with a frown, wondering what he met. "_Who_?"

"Ah, just this guy I knew. He's cool. He'll find ya. I bet he's all lookin' for you, right at this moment."

"I know him?"

"Um...I don't know." Kills-Many-White-People frowned. "She didn't see that part of her dream. So...I dunno. Guess we wait an' find out."

"Then how do you know he's looking for me?"

"Why do you ask so many questions, kid? Just accept it."

"But–!"

"Sleep! Sleep...sleep..." Kills-Many-White-People waved his fingers and hands at him, as if willing him asleep. He then yelped as Turtle Moon slapped him across the head, ushering him out of the tent.

Richie relaxed against the pelts, utterly puzzled and confused by the entire situation. Turtle Moon looked at him, smiling gently as she pressed a stocky finger against her thin lips, gesturing that he go back to sleep.

Sighing, Richie pulled his hands up from the pelts, looking at his fingertips. His skin was withered and starting to blister–but the warmth of the hides he wore, the pelts, the fire burning nearby made him forget just how uncomfortable he had been out in the snow. Figuring he was going to trust them–for now–he rolled onto his side and went back to sleep.

**010101010110**

Nearly three weeks passed since a band of Lakotas found Richie, and Virgil and his friends found Junior. Hotstreak was still looking for Richie, Kangorr was still looking for Caine and 'him'. Snow had slowed progress considerably, but it didn't stop. The West was still under assault, and that assault was steadily moving Mid-West. Rail lines were permanently stopped, and settlements, towns were wiped off of known maps. As more and more people disappeared, questions were asked. Those moving in from the East were bewildered with what they found, but as communication dropped between this and that State and Territory, no one outside had any idea that humanity as they knew it was being taken over.

It was now the middle of Winter, Spring just a hope away. As more people fell to their deaths by demons and ghosts, Madelyn's powers continued to grow.

The agonizing scream of the girl was loud.

The carriage was simple–but it was obviously thought out by the men that built it. Iron shaped its doors and sides, the wheels carved out of what looked to be rubber. The inside was brightly lit with candles in decorative glass vases, and the curtains that shielded the windows were a dark purple color, easily defined by the candlelight that lit the night.

The carriage was being pulled by atrocities–Mammoths, but creatures that were mawing in agony themselves. Their backs kept shifting, their tails slashed the air–they swayed within the confines of their chains and ropes, the carriage shifting with their movements as well. There were other creatures around the carriage–zombies that held their heads in agony, Hounds that rolled in the muddied dirt with barking screams, Ghouls shouting angry obscenities as they lashed out at anything closest to them with their man-screams and shouts.

Standing outside the carriage, just within reach, was a tall man and a small girl-child.

Madelyn screamed in agony, childish features screwed into intense torment. Caine stood nearby, calmly watching her writhe in the ground. The short fluctuating sounds echoed throughout the valley, shattering the silence violently.

The child's mouth seemed to expand with unnatural movement. It revealed all her teeth and gums, grotesquely pulling her lips back with a cartoonish grimace. The whites of her eyes showed, lashes fluttering violently–skin stretching all around her jaw line to accommodate the action of her mouth. Her nose was hidden by the back curl of her upper lip, tongue spilling over her bottom teeth in unnatural action. Blood, dark and quick, dribbled over the exposure of teeth and gums, dribbling over the stretched skin of her chin. .

Madelyn suddenly rose, pin-straight, spine arching then straightening once more with violent force. Her upper torso snapped back and forth with animated fashion, arms stiffening at her sides. Black hair sliced through the air as her head snapped from side to side. Her scream was strangled–as if air was trying to force itself back into her lungs while an opposing force tried to force its way back out.

Her eyes began to bulge, lids pulling back as the orbs pushed from their sockets. Her screams stopped, a steady stream of suction pulling into her throat, tendons and veins pulsing against her skin. Previous dribbling of blood stopped its forceful flow, stilling for several moments before slowly pulling back into her mouth. Previous stretching skin began to slide back into place, but it sagged noticeably, lined with violent red marks around her mouth. Her eyes stopped bulging, but her lashes continued to flutter violently, the whites still visible.

The suction stopped, and her body stopped convulsing. Caine continued to stand calmly, watching her as the creatures around them shuffled, emitting low noises of their own torment. Madelyn's arms loosened, shoulders pulling up and rounding back. Her knees started to buckle, her body losing control. Urine drizzled down her thin legs, excrement spilling loosely onto the dirt. It was as if she were held by her shoulder with invisible rope–her body was entirely loose.

There was a sharp cracking sound, followed by several popping noises. In the light spilling away from the carriage, Madelyn's skin color fading abruptly–from light tan to stark white, veins suddenly bright blue. It also seemed to tighten, sculpting around her muscles, sucking against her limbs and body, as if vacuumed from the inside.

Her body began to shrink in that action, bones suddenly shifting–it was as if someone were inside her frame, rearranging her body from the inside. Her shoulders popped outward in unsynchronized action–one jutted outward while the other shifted away from her frame. Arms uneven, fingers spreading.

She was silent throughout the process, a terrifying difference from the screaming earlier. Her facial features were shifting–cheekbones jutting outward, jaw detaching with a sickening crack. Skin stretched with a slurping sound around her mouth as it stretched downward, nose shifting grotesquely. Nostrils stretched–one moved downward, skin slicing around the curves. The rest pulled away from the face, cartilage disconnecting with sickening snaps.

The area around her eyes blackened suddenly, swelling immensely until the lashes were barely visible. Her face contorted into ghastly action. Her arms lengthened, bones breaking as her knuckles hit the dirt. Skin stretched, red marks digging into the smooth texture. Her chest jut outward, followed quickly with her ribcage.

Bones noticeably shifted outward, snapping loudly. Movement pressed at her clothing from the inside–her arms shifting, disturbingly curling upward with abnormal length and movement. Fingers shot outward, disconnecting from her palms with sharp cracks, hanging limply from skin.

But they curled into her clothing, ripping off the material with astonishing ease. Her hipbones disconnected from her body, stretching outward, shifting with unsynchronized action. Her ribcage was separating, spreading outward with a snapping action, similar to that of a rubberband snapping. Skin stretched to accommodate this, but it was stretched so tightly that it appeared to be on the verge of breaking.

The small ribcage shifted upward with a sudden jolt, separated ribs pushing fiercely against her sides. These bones stretched outward, following the length of her arms so that she had four limbs hanging from her changing torso. They snapped back up, considerably shorter than her original arms. She suddenly shot up in height to accommodate the lengthening of her limbs.

Her face stretched outward, neck lengthening, bones shifting and adjusting. Soon, she was standing over six feet tall, bones snapping loudly with repetitive cracks. Her dark hair contrasted with the color of her skin.

Madelyn was, in no question, male. The evidence was obvious, changing along with her form. Male genitalia shifted and expanded into grotesque proportion until even with the length of her form.

When she was finally done changing, she was panting–a sort of airy sound that merged swiftly into that of a man's deep bass.

"That _hurt_, father," she panted. One of her short arms, handless, lifted so she could examine them. Her scowl was murderous. "I look like a _freak_."

Caine snorted. "I recall saying the very same thing whilst you were wearin' girly clothes, darlin'. My beautiful baby boy just grew up a few inches. How do you feel?"

"Give me my hands, father. And stop using that tone on me. It's patronizing."

Caine shrugged, bending slightly to retrieve a hollow book from inside the carriage. The creatures were still carrying on in their own agony–what he didn't see was that they were changing, too. The Hounds grew heavy spikes, and their tails slimmed–their skin stretched tightly, and bones lengthened until they were sleek and armored like demons; their furred pelts fell away to reveal rocky scales and hardened plates of armor. They no longer resembled the clumsy creatures they were, before.

The Ghouls were more muscled–walking walls of power and strength, covered completely in shadow, but their eyes were more menacingly dots of color, their mouths visible in cartoonish white rows.

The Mammoths were now heavily armored things with spikes throughout their backs and haunches–tails flicked with points, a huge, rounded knob of something holding those points together.

Zombies remained zombies, but it appeared that their coherency and understanding had come back to them. They were speaking to each other in confounded tones–as if learning how to speak all over again. Carrying awkward conversation that was stilted–much more smarter than they were, before.

Madelyn stretched, her two normal arms stretching for the sky, the other two stretching out to the sides. She looked down at her transformed body, reaching with one abnormally long hand to grasp her new genitals. As Caine opened the hollow book, she stroked herself with all the casual regard of something to play with. Not really hitting arousal, but just to _feel_.

Caine held out the mummified hands, _tsk_ing. "Now, a lady ain't a lady when they all playing with themselves that way, son! You want hair on your palms? You want people to think of you like a freak?"

Madelyn scowled at him, abnormally long face reflecting her discontent with his words. She snatched the hands from him, untying the faded rope. Carefully, she held the wrists of those hands against the stumps of her arms–muscle, skin and bone snapped, slithering and connecting with each other, hands coming to life.

Then, she was holding up four hands, examining her two new arms with impatient discontent.

"I look _stupid_," she said sullenly, dropping her arms.

Caine pretended to sniff, wiping at his eyes. "You make me so dang proud! You all changed an' shit...ready to take over the world."

"_Stop_. Talking. _That_. Way," Madelyn growled.

"Can't I just be happy for my baby?"

"Old man...you..._exasperate_ me."

Caine grinned, pushing his hands into his pants pocket.

His plans were nearing completion with Madelyn's transformation. No longer a 'baby' demon, she was rapidly reaching a serious threat with every death she absorbed as they made their way through the West. With every creature she produced from the powers of her mind, taking example from the book of the Underworld that Caine had, her powers grew much more stronger, transmitted further. She was able to hold her armies with less strain, concentrate more intensely–they just needed a few thousand more until she reached the next level of her transformation.

...If only he'd stop thinking he was a girl.

**010101010110**

Richie was jolted awake suddenly, flashes of alien things running through his mind. He jerked up from the pillow of animal pelts, seeing the race of demonic creatures flashing in his mind's eye, planned out with a sort of orchestrating air. It was suddenly a knowledge instilled in him, that he knew how the Hounds worked; how the zombies communicated. Suddenly, he knew more about the animals than he thought he would.

It was strange and wondrous how he was given this unexpected knowledge. It felt as if he'd just left a classroom–overflowing with new and fantastic information that made him eager to share with others. But he'd only been sleeping–how could...?

He looked around himself, hearing the various snores of people around him. Since he'd arrived, he'd gotten to know more of them. Turtle Moon was rather menacing in appearance, but as sweet as honey; as commanding as a mother should be. Despite their language barrier, he realized that sign language was used more often than words. He was learning quickly, much to their relief. Since he was still sick, and Turtle Moon decided that venturing out into the cold temperatures so soon after coming out of it was a bad idea, he'd remained only inside the spacious tent. He was visited a few times by Kills-Many-White-People and his friends, as well as Spotted Deer, who had a very keen interest in him.

He was told by Kills-Many-White-People and Turtle Moon that the elders wanted to meet with him, and was apprehensive about that. He didn't know why they would want to. He was sort of scared that they'd see him, and decide to want to kill him just because they feared the white man. Despite the kindness and caring of those that attended to him, there were most that were cold toward him. Of course, while he felt bad that the Indians were being slaughtered and forced to move out of lands that had been in their possession for years by settlers, he wasn't part of that front.

Dammit, he'd just wanted to teach and educate!

And above it all, everyone had a joke that he just wasn't getting. It was irritating when he hadn't any idea of what it was they were so thrilled about.

While he was nursed from his various injuries–they were still new to gun wounds, and helped as best as they could, but really couldn't do much–and illness, he stayed and learned what he could from those that visited.

From the urgency they spoke around him, it was apparent that they were getting ready to move. There was constant activity outside the tent, and whenever he was helped outside to relieve himself, he noticed that the flat area, filled with hundreds of Indians, animals and the constant smell of smoke, was slowly dwindling. People were packing up their belongings–loading down their ponies, oxen; even dogs. He was surprised to see dogs with packs of their own. He'd never seen that, before. He was also startled to realize that these animals went missing, and he had to question the contents of his stew, tasting odd things he'd never tasted, before.

But above all that, despite the constant threat of being a single white among them, he felt relaxed. At ease. Nobody wanted anything from him. They never threatened him with fists, with words–and though some shot him mean looks, they never advanced on him. It had been awhile since he could feel like he could relax, and he was starting to enjoy it.

He remained cautious–tense whenever their alien words grew agitated, and laughter was replaced with a pensive atmosphere.

But tonight...tonight he dreamed odd things and didn't know what to make of them. He sat up in his bed, blinking as the now-familiar environment of animal and smoke bothered his eyes. His glasses were hanging nearby, next to Turtle Moon's primitive jewelry. He hadn't a need for them inside the tent. Turtle Moon was snoring loudly–it seemed to rattle the hide that kept them warm. Behind him were two young couples and a couple of men. No one had any qualms about body space, and had to throw off Punches-With-Many-Fist's foot from his back, and uncomfortably give himself space away from another. One of the couples were busy doing their business underneath their blankets, giggling and moaning quietly in such a way that he blushed.

He was still sore–but considerably rested, feeling more healthy. He didn't feel as shaky and weak as he had, before. Carefully, he stepped around the others, and froze when the man threw off his blanket to look at him with a question. He had to blush at the sight of their nakedness and position.

A question was asked, followed by impatient hand signals that were interrupted by the position. The woman giggled, trying to cover her breasts with her hair.

He gestured outside, trying not to look. The man grunted, and pulled the blankets back over, and both of them laughed.

He grabbed the buffalo hide that Turtle Moon used every time she went outside, and covered himself with it. Pushing through the hides that were laid over the cut-out of the tent, he stepped outside. The cold immediately sucked his breath away, and he hesitated for a moment, getting used to it. Everyone was asleep, save for those warriors milling about to watch over everyone while they slept–a couple of dogs hurried by, one looking for a quick scratch behind its ears before hurrying off.

He wandered away from the tent, the ground worn with constant activity by those living in the camp. He walked away from the closely populated area, and headed for the herd of horses that were milling around nearby–they scattered lightly as he approached, but most were calm and relaxed to let him touch them as he passed through. A couple of dogs investigated the movement, but relaxed, taking off for more interesting things as Richie walked away from the herd. He could see several warriors standing around a circle ahead, laughing and talking quietly. He recognized Kills-Many-White-People, and wanted to share what he'd dreamt. As he approached, they all looked suddenly guilty, one of them quickly hiding what looked to be a long pipe behind his back. This prompted more laughter.

"'Ey, White Boy!" Kills-Many-White-People hollered, being shushed immediately by the others. They all began giggling like school children, and Richie frowned at the smell of alcohol. Kills-Many-White-People gestured at him to join them, then tossed an arm around his shoulders. He said something that made the others laugh, then quickly stifle the sounds. Then they went on to sharing the pipe–smelling suspiciously of something sweet, something Richie wasn't familiar with–and sharing a small bottle of alcohol amongst each other.

"What you doin', brother? Can't sleep?" Kills-Many-White-People asked him. "Here, have some of this. This'll grow hair on your chest."

He laughed wildly, the others shushing him. Richie refused the pipe. "No, I–couldn't sleep. Something was bothering me."

The others began mimicking his words, stringing out the drawls of his accent, and he frowned at them. They laughed again.

Kills-Many-White-People then looked at him with curiosity. "Turtle's cooking?"

Richie tried not to think of her stew. But his tongue seemed to sting in remembrance to the amount of flavoring that had left a rather bad taste in his mouth. "No. Just...odd things. Things that didn't make sense to me."

"You had a vision..." Kills-Many-White-People nodded in sudden understanding, signaling for the others to shush. He quickly relayed what Richie was telling them, and suddenly they were looking at him gravely, pipe and bottle forgotten. Richie was suddenly embarrassed at the attention. "Tell us, brother, what you have seen."

Someone snickered and was immediately shushed. Kills-Many-White-People tried to stifle his mirthful expression, but it was obviously a losing battle. Richie was starting to get used to these moments, and gave him an annoyed look. "You're going to make fun of me."

"Not _us._ No. Seriously, we won't. What you dream about?"

Richie caught the hand motion that a man was making, and gave him a disgusted look. They burst into laughter finally, losing that stoicism. "How can anybody take you people seriously?" he asked. "You're all just–you're just like drunken men in a crowded saloon!"

"Shush, shush, he's getting mad at us," Kills-Many-White-People said, waving at them to calm down. He sent a warning look at the man that made the hand motions. "You cut that out. Seriously. I question you, man. I'm thinkin' there was more of that with ya an' that cowboy back on the summer grounds."

"Not uh!" the man cried, much to the ribbing of others.

Richie sighed as they began to make fun of the man with their alien language and hand signals, turning to walk back to the tent.

Kills-Many-White-People followed him, choking back some chuckles. He clapped a hand on Richie's shoulder. "He's coming, man. Don't worry. He'll be here."

"I don't know who you're talking about!"

"Most likely, he'll be here by the time we pack up for summer grounds. The guys we have, the scouts? They saying all those monsters are heading further East. Away from our summer grounds. We'll be safe, then. But I'm kinda thinkin'–we got us a lot more families, here. An' I'm thinkin' I won't have to lug as much with _you_ here."

"I'm not your slave! Not anyone's!"

"Now, see here–the way the elders see it, you're property. We take you in, we fix you up–basically, kid, you are. But we ain't about to get all mean about it," Kills-Many-White-People added, Richie giving him a disbelieving expression. "I mean..._yeah_, you can stay wit' us, and, like, grow up here. But see, the thing is–a majority of the elders don't know you. They need to meet you. But you need to get over bein' all sickly before they can."

"I–"

"We know you're a nice guy an' all? But...what do we know 'bout you? Huh? _Nothin_'. So, for now, after you get well, you'll be used. Chores are plentiful 'round here. Bringin' in the water, taking down the tents, loading–all that. No one'll be mean 'bout it. It's just how it goes. Old man Snapper Turtle, his daughter is a white girl–she was orphaned cuz our warriors invaded her village cuz of those rapes? Yeah. He took her in, now she all married and has kids. But she went through the same thing."

Richie thought of the buffalo bladders he'd seen filled with water, being carried up the hill by teen girls and women. It didn't look so bad...and he didn't think that they'd use him for sex. No one looked at him that way. No one knew of his past in that manner. But the notion terrified him.

"'Sides," Kills-Many-White-People scoffed, slugging his shoulder companionably. "You ain't stayin' long. I'm just fuckin' wit' ya."

Richie looked at him, confused. A dog barked at their arrival, then ran to greet them, nosing his hand for affection. Kills-Many-White-People booted the dog away, sending him yelping off into the night. "Why do you say stuff like that? All of you people know something I don't, and you won't tell me who this person is!"

"Let's just say...it's fate. And my sis's dreams ALWAYS come true."

"I don't–!"

"She says it's all good, anyway. But you'll be better off with _him_, than wit' us." Kills-Many-White-People looked serious, for once. "You're meant for other things. Not to be here. Part of a grander scheme. You wanna know why you survived? Old woman Kicking Woman saw it all. You see how different it is, here? Most of the women lead the band. You get all these stories of men leading, but those ones–they ask the _women_ for permission. Women lead the council. Women know when to leave, when to stay. They the ones we look to for advice. So when a woman tells you what to do, you damn well lissen to them."

"...Um, Turtle Moon–"

"THAT one you listen to, most. All those babes, full of babies? They go to her to have their kids named, and blessed. We have a few two-soul people here in this camp. And they all know your destiny, too. They know you ain't gonna be here, long."

"...what?"

Kills-Many-White-People looked at him blankly. Richie waited for him to continue, confused. The older Indian looked around himself blinking curiously, then focused on him. Richie blinked, unsure of what to say, now.

"Who we talkin' about?"

Richie sighed.

The man laughed, slapping him across the back. "Just fuckin' with ya! Laugh, for once. Say somethin'. Joke about things! Yeah, shit's tough, but be happy! Hey man, 'least you won't HAVE to skin and fix up hides, like Turtle's planning on making you do. We initiate that to every foreigner we come across. It's so funny to see them handle the brains..."

Richie didn't want to know what _that_ was about.

"Anyway, go back to bed. An' keep those dreams to yourself. They came to you for a reason."

"...But–!"

"Like they said, you're part of a grander scheme. Don't _question_ it. SAVE it." Kills-Many-White-People made a severe nod, then walked off.

Richie watched him leave with a disgusted expression, more confused than ever. How could people know things if they hadn't seen them, yet? How they could they heap all this mysterious bullshit on him and expect him to follow it as seriously as they?

He didn't think he'd ever get the Indians' concept of thinking. With that, he made his way back to the tent to somehow go back to sleep.


	17. Seems Like It's Been Forever

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Sixteen:  
>Seems Like It's Been Forever...<strong>

Hotstreak was at a loss for where to go, what to do. Charger was pawing at the snow underneath, and Hotstreak scanned the landscape around him, the glare of the snow irritating his eyes. He was really trying to ignore the persistent throb of failure, of intense remorse; knowledge of the area and his own knowledge of the elements and conditions had him sick with fact that they couldn't have made it. _He_ couldn't have made it. Hotstreak hadn't seen any riders in this area for days–the lack of tracks and activity in these parts made it impossible for any human to survive without knowing what to do, without proper supplies. He knew the kid had none.

He didn't want that thought swirling around, so he struggled to push it aside. The air was cold, and he was also worrying on what he was doing to his horse. He'd gone in a more north direction–aiming to head back and search again.

It was fruitless, he imagined–he just knew Junior didn't have the supplies, and the last he'd seen, both of them weren't wearing any coats, any warm clothing.

He felt terribly low at that point; really, he didn't know why. He didn't even know the guy! And what he _did_ know, that aspect was fucked up, anyway. Why was he putting himself through all this shit when the kid was just a stranger? When all he spoke to him were words of violence, of doubt; when the only touches he'd administered were those of medical care and–

Really, it was unfair to think that the kid was the only one hurt. After all, Hotstreak didn't remember himself _consenting_ that night.

He scowled, feeling the burn on his face from the sun reflecting off the snow. He thought of that night as he pushed Charger into a walk, the stallion exhausted from the activity. He remembered nothing, really, of what had happened–just that something _did_. No man could forget the feelings and aftereffects of an orgasm. But _what_ had happened? He had started to feel violated in that his body was under someone else's control, in that a stranger had taken over his body without his knowledge or consent. Someone had taken off his clothes, someone had played with his dick. Someone had touched him and he remembered _nothing_. It was a sick feeling, and it left him more than apprehensive about it.

While he did feel distracted by the kid–and those damn eyes–he just hated that he remembered nothing. Having his control taken away, being pleasured, being forced into an act he didn't consent to was just as bad as taking the kid the other night. He hadn't thought of it as payback–just that he'd had a ton of feelings that needed more than just his own hand to relieve, and it was justified in that sense.

Even though he didn't plan it.

Even though–

He trailed off in his thoughts, looking around once more. Kangorr must hate him. This was his third time running off, and–he squinted, realizing that there were riders on the ridge a distance away. Once he caught sight of the hides, the obvious lack of cloth and metal, he quickly tried to identify the tribe that ran this territory. He knew there were hostiles this way–but he also knew many came up this way for their winter camp.

He hoped that it was friendlies he was looking at, and not hostile; he wasn't interested in a battle against prideful young warriors after all the shit he'd just left behind. Charger's head lifted, ears shifting–before he could shush the horse, the stallion let out a loud whinny that caught the Indians' attention. He swatted the horse above the head, and Charger bucked with a frothy snarl.

The Indians were now coming this way, and Hotstreak sighed, rolling the kinks out of his neck and shoulder, making sure his weapons were ready for quick use. As the group neared, yipping in discovery and excitement, he grew to realize that he recognized a couple. This was very relieving–maybe he could rest for a couple of days before resuming his search.

**010101010110**

That next day, Richie looked up from the muddied dirt in which he was drawing out the alphabet for several warriors that were interested in learning English. He saw people hurrying toward the east section of the camp, talking quietly amongst each other, children being herded into tents. The elderly were being informed of something by a man whose horse was heaving tiredly–Richie understood that he was a scout from the group that was patrolling the east section of their land. He couldn't see the hand gestures and signs that accompanied their words, but it was obvious that something was found. The men looked around each other, then everyone seemed to focus in on him with deliberate precision.

He flushed, looking away, and finished the last letter of the alphabet. The warriors weren't panicked, but they were curious as to where people were going. Questions were demanded over his lecture, but he continued on to those that were listening intently. When the warriors returned their full attention to his lecture, he had them following his example with trying out the letters with sound. Over their repetitive sounds, the returning scout hurried over, gruffly commanding his attention. Words were exchanged over his head, and he understood that the scout wanted him to go with him, and the warriors were reluctant, for they hadn't finished learning, yet.

One of the elders made a gruff noise, silencing them all–the warriors reluctantly left it alone, casting scowls at the scout, who shrugged sheepishly. Listlessly, Richie rose, understanding the hand signals that told him they had a visitor he had to meet. For the short time he'd stayed here, he'd caught onto the hand signals that were used to accompany words–while the language took him awhile, the signals were actually pretty easy for him. It was the only line of communication he had with them.

He started to hear their words for 'white man', and it was said in such a playful manner that he felt non-threatened as they felt. He fiddled with his drawing stick, remembering that Kills-Many-White-People had said a man was coming for him.

Spotted Deer ran to him, excitedly gesturing at him to follow her. He went with her as the scout found himself busy with his wife and children, waylaid by the family that was excited over his return. Richie was wondering if Junior had found him–and on a far hope, his father–but as he reached the others, he realized that he didn't know this man. Dressed in Hound clothing, horse heaving tiredly, the man was already laughing with Kills-Many-White-People and the others. It was obvious they were friendly with each other–there was such a relaxed air around everyone that it was as if people were greeting a long-lost acquaintance. Spotted Deer ran from him to greet the man, and Richie hesitated near the tents, wishing he could blend in to be less noticeable.

Several men were grumbling, obviously hating the interaction the rest of their relatives and friends had with the single white man. Richie listened to their alien words, recognizing their hate and frustration. It wasn't as if the entire camp was greeting the man–many of the warriors were armed, and the women were keeping their distance, children safely tucked away while wariness was cast in this direction. But it was the fact that the small group of people greeted this white man with friendliness that had many irritated.

The warriors looked at him, angrily gesturing that he leave immediately. Richie really didn't want to–despite the tension he felt from the majority that disliked him for his race, and distrusting him for obvious reasons, he truly felt comfortable and relaxed. He hadn't felt that way since he'd arrived here in the West.

Tentatively, he ventured forward, awkwardly brushing off his buckskin pants, straightening the long sleeved shirt. Turtle Moon had spent time on his mocassin boots, which were beautifully beaded with green, gold and white triangles. She'd even loaned him one of her buffalo hide jackets. Still, he felt out of place and awkward in these clothes, especially with the wide barrier the Indians gave him.

Since his gunshot wound had healed quite well, it was nothing more than a bad memory and gave him a slight limp. Still, the cold weather happened to make it sore, and his limp was more pronounced, so he walked more slowly.

He waited for the man to see him, staring anxiously at the tired stallion, realizing that he recognized it. He remembered _seeing_ it–just couldn't place the owner.

The man removed his hat, and Richie froze upon seeing the matted tangle of red, the roughened features of a man he knew. The beard was thicker, the mustache heavier–but he _did_ know this man. Was this some sort of cruel joke? Is this what the others were laughing about? They worked out some deal? This was part of some 'grand scheme'?

Sullenly, he turned away, moving back to Turtle Moon's tent. Pushing pelts aside, he said immediately, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to go with him!"

Turtle Moon looked over upon hearing him, watching his agitated movements as he sat down near the fire. She set down her beadwork, looking at him with a gentle expression. She clucked to get his attention, then rapidly signed a question. He responded quickly, gesturing that he knew their visitor, that he didn't want to go with him.

Turtle Moon asked why–Richie sullenly replied that he was a bad man. Everyone outside the camp was. They all wanted to hurt him–he wanted to stay here.  
>Turtle Moon clucked again, shaking her head in sympathy. She studied his expression–recognized the pain on his face and eyes. She began to sign that many were familiar with the man waiting outside–he was friendly, harmless. Maybe a bit dim.<p>

Richie refuted that with a shake of his head. Turtle Moon asked why he'd say that. Richie didn't want to say, and Turtle Moon frowned. She pressed for an answer, throwing in some words to get his attention when he turned away, and Richie refused to say, shaking his head with a shamed look on his face.

Running Elk peered in at this moment, gesturing at Richie to come with him. Richie shot Turtle Moon a reluctant expression, and she made gestures in that Hotstreak couldn't hurt him here. Not with so many people about.

Richie was not liking that, Running Elk demanding to know what was going on. Richie left the tent with very troubled heaviness, not wanting to imagine what Hotstreak would do to him once they left. But he saw Hotstreak using him again; using indifference and coldness; wanting repayment for the theft of his money that night so long ago.

It hurt to know that Hotstreak was incapable of everything Richie had hoped for. It hurt to know that Hotstreak was just like the others.

He headed reluctantly up to the horse, everyone quieting, watching with playful expectation. Once Hotstreak saw him, it was like a strong shot of recognition–of relief. But he was aware of the silence, the strong attention on the pair of them. He looked around with a flush easily noticeable despite his tan. Richie was looking at him as if Hotstreak were going to eat him, and the Indians were waiting with familiar mirth at some joke he didn't get.

Hotstreak looked down at Richie, at the healthy flush and obvious weight gain. He was still so young-looking, still roundish in the face with those big amber eyes; still needing to grow into those limbs. Hotstreak thought that Richie was incredibly beautiful at that moment–whether it was just the length of time he'd last seen him, or that Richie really was beautiful to him–whichever, it was a punch that had him speechless.

_This_ was what he'd left Kangorr for. _This_ was who drove him. Yet...he couldn't express that aloud. He looked down at him, not hearing Kills-Many-White-People talk. He was just so focused on Richie that nothing else mattered. Richie continued staring at him with that scared expression, and Hotstreak knew why–but he felt angry for it. Because of this, Hotstreak was able to use his anger to function. He didn't have anything nice to say at that moment, so he said nothing to Richie. He just asked Kills-Many-White-People for a couple of days rest.

Everyone looked disappointed, and Richie stood quietly, recognizing that Hotstreak was going to stay. He swallowed tightly, watching as the stallion was led away as Hotstreak left with the others. He stood alone, attention then diverted by the kids that were openly staring at him. One poked his arm with a stick, and he rubbed at it briefly as they hurried away, giggling.

That night, Richie was once again teaching the group of men simple words, the light of the main camp fire allowing this when he realized he was being watched. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, for goosepimples to rise on his flesh. He faltered in his words, looking behind him for the source, and saw that man–what _was_ his name?–turning away, disappearing into the group of tents nearby. He felt a little troubled at being the focus of his attention, but at the same time...why did he care so much?

He returned his lecturing to the others, sounding out words and writing them out in the dirt. The warriors were starting to catch on, and the three women that had joined them were giving their input.

Later that night, Richie was helping Turtle Moon repair a pair of moccasins for Punches-With-Many-Fists when Hotstreak entered the tent, startling them both.

Richie stilled for a moment, dropping the buckskin that he'd held as he stared at Hotstreak with a mute expression. Turtle Moon looked at Hotstreak, studying him as he glanced over their work. She looked at Richie, who was fumbling with the peice of buckskin, avoiding Hotstreak's quick gaze. The tension was incredibly smothering for her–it was all a clash of emotions that made her feel suffocated.

She rose, Richie looking at her with panic. She nodded at Hotstreak in greeting, then signaled to Richie that she was taking a bathroom break. She then signaled for him to express his feelings, now: she'd be back. He shook his head rigidly, reaching for her, missing her by inches as she walked past. He then pulled back, looking at Hotstreak with some terror, hating to be alone with him.

Hotstreak frowned at him, bewildered by his behavior. But he took it in stride, realizing that they were being left alone for a reason. He looked around, having never been inside a tent, before. It was smaller than he expected–warm, cozy, a little cramped. It smelled rich of human musk, smoke and hide. He looked back at Richie, at the bowed head–he felt an uncomfortable drop in his gut just being close to him. Not looking away from him, he sat nearby, watching the way Richie fiddled with the piece of buckskin–the way he looked everywhere but at him.

There was something about the way his lips tightened that made Hotstreak want to reach out, to smooth them loose; to kiss and touch him until they curved with a smile. He was just so relieved that Richie was alive, that he was obviously healthy and well; that knowing Richie was scared of him didn't bother him as much. As long as he was nearby–Hotstreak was rather satisfied with that.

He made a mistake that night–but he wasn't the only one.

He finally looked away, to study the tip of his worn boots as he had his legs stretched out, the fire just a couple of feet away from his feet.

Richie had warmed under Hotstreak's gaze–being so close to him made him feel wary and scared of being attacked, but there was comfort in that Hotstreak wouldn't try anything here. He could smell the man–of body smells, of horse, of mud and snow; he started to think of the way Hotstreak had smelled that night at Alva's; that sweat, musk and man smell that had made him feel hot and wanting of more. That sudden diversion surprised him, growing steadily more confused as he wondered why he thought of that.

He was scared of this man; he had his rights to be. Before the Indians, he hadn't come across anybody nice–well, except maybe for that Virgil character and the others, but after being with Junior and his cronies–

He wanted to move, but he was scared. Scared that Hotstreak would reach out and grab him, pull him back. From there, the options were endless. He didn't want him to touch him. But this silence, this togetherness–it was maddening.

He sneaked a glance his way, doing it too fast for him to see what the redhead was doing. It was just so quiet–it unnerved him.

This man was friendly and loud with others–why so quiet around him? Why didn't he speak?

It was growing frustrating and maddening the more his feelings confused him.

The more time passed with their silence, the more he grew steadily agitated by it. Thoughts of being safe, of being surrounded by people and just knowing that people came in and out of the tent randomly–giving him the impression of constant activity on the crowded streets of New York–started to make him feel brave. This man couldn't do anything to him–perhaps he could convince him to leave him when he left.

He cleared his throat, but that lump just stayed there, irritating him until he coughed. As he did so, Hotstreak looked at him, looking as if he were going to say something, too. But he stalled as Richie cleared his throat again, and both of them just looked at each other.

Richie quickly flushed and looked away, fiddling with the piece of buckskin, while Hotstreak quickly looked in the other direction, just astounded at how he felt being near the kid. He thought of the books, and shifted, shrugging off his coat.

Richie looked at him with stark terror, taking back all the niceties that he was going to say when he realized Hotstreak was taking off a small, leather pack from his back. Not saying anything, he watched him maneuver the pack onto his lap, opening the leather ties–as he did so, Richie noticed the thickness of his arms, the broadness of his shoulders. He fleetingly hoped that he grew into that shape and size, really not liking his five foot one frame. It really wasn't manly, and–

"_My books_!" he exclaimed, out of surprise and shocked delight as Hotstreak passed them over. Almost greedily, Richie snatched them from his hands, shocked and amazed that they were indeed his books. He flipped through them, pausing on a few folded pages that held his favorite passages and picked up the slim red volume, flipping through that to find a picture of his parents.

He held it gently, just in stunned awe that he was holding things very precious to him–studying the solemn expressions of his parents' faces in the picture.

Hotstreak was just in awe himself, taking in Richie's shifting expressions, the light smile on his face as he studied the small print. His reaction, his obvious thankfulness for the precious items were definitely worth the trouble of lugging those things around. He was holding his breath, unaware that he'd even caught it; just frantically trying to take in that slight smile, the lightness in Richie's eyes. It was worth it–all of it.

He wanted to see more–it was insane how much he wanted.

Richie looked away from the picture, looking at him, still fuzzy with incredible joy of the return of things he'd thought he'd lost. Truth to tell, he hadn't even thought of them, but now that he had them–how precious they were. Looking up at Hotstreak's face, he was suddenly struck dumb and senseless at the light expression on his face; his joy at witnessing his own.

A fleeting thought–_he'd_ _made a mistake_–anchored him with a sense of heaviness; more confused than ever by his feelings. He lowered the picture, forcing himself to look down to escape that intense gaze. He didn't know what it meant–what it _all_ meant!

Turtle Moon walked in, startling them both–she looked at them, then at the books, turning her nose up at them. She began talking with obvious disdain, gesturing that she didn't want them touching her things. Fussy with obvious irritation, she walked about as Richie gathered the books, Hotstreak passing over the pack he'd held them in–Richie took it, looking at him. He was so confused by the action, the gesture.

The redhead then stood, picking up his coat–then laughingly boomed how happy he was to seeing that Turtle Moon was looking more and more woman every day.

He emphasized this by gesturing to his chest, mimicking the action of groping breasts and pointing at her. The woman turned, and slapped him, startling him as Richie grew bewildered. What did _that_ mean?

Hotstreak grumbled, rubbing his face while Turtle Moon threw whatever she could find at him, huffing indignantly. She chased him out, smoothing her braids out, fussily checking over her shell earrings and ropes of necklaces. She caught Richie looking at her, and she flushed, waving at him to mind his own business while she quickly picked things up.

That next morning, Richie woke up, pushing Punches-With-Many-Fists away from him so that he could breathe. Turtle Moon herself was laying next to him, and he wiggled his arm out from under her. He was wondering how he was going to sleep without all these human bodies around him–it was rather comforting, and it meant that he didn't have to wrestle with a blanket. But the woman's snoring...he rose from his bed spot, yawning–the tent was filled with a few more people, and he stepped carefully around them all, heading outside.

Those dreams were back–his fingers were itching for some ink and paper. He needed to write all this down! Diagrams, detailed anatomy–words leapt at him, pictures fluttered around him. He needed things to write it all down, or it was just going to make him go crazy. He accomplished his bathroom routine, yawning again as he headed back to the camp, frowning at the cold and at the dimming of stars overhead. There were wolves barking and yowling in the distance, the dogs letting out warning barks of their own–the herd of horses were nervous, looking out into the lighting darkness with prancing of hooves and tossing heads.

Walking around in the cold made him shiver, pulling the robe around himself tightly. He could see that some people were up and about, doing their own morning activities. It was still dark, but the lights of the morning were starting to decorate the night sky. He thought of his books; that old picture of his parents, taken when they were first married. He was startled at receiving this from that man–startled and bewildered how the man had thought of him, had thought to–he just didn't understand.

Wandering away from the camp, he headed toward the small correl were wild horses were kept, various men trying their luck in breaking these animals for use. The horses were wary of anyone that approached, watching him closely as he ventured toward the sturdy wooden posts. He leant against the railing, looking at the horses that stared at him wary regard, snorting visible exhalations in the morning air.

How did that man think of those books? How did he find them? He vaguely remembered shoving his leather bag near the single wooden shelf near the window, never again thinking of them during the invasion.

He must have went back–but...why? _Why_?

Richie was so very confused, staring at the horses as he tried to seek out the answer in his head. He flicked at the cold wooden post, smearing frost from the scarred wood. For someone to go to his room, to rifle through his belongings–while it should have made him feel uncomfortable, he couldn't feel that way. Just having those items, just having them in his hands to touch and feel after he'd lost them kept him from feeling violated.

He didn't know what to think of the man, now. He knew he hated what had happened–the person that used him so heartlessly, because 'he was a whore' was enough to instill abhorrence in his heart for that person. But then...to have these books back...and he'd appreciated the man's physical attributes that night–took his time to study and marvel; he'd wanted to believe, back then, that this man was incapable of everything else Jr. and his cronies had done.

Despite Hotstreak's righteous anger over being robbed, the drug–Richie had to accept that Hotstreak had a right to be angry at him for that. No man wanted to wake up, to realize that he'd been violated in that sense. He flushed, feeling uncomfortable at the thought; he'd done his share of penetrating, but he couldn't do that with this man–which was why he'd done what he had, that night. Allowed him to penetrate him–still, the fact of the matter was, he'd taken the man without his consent. But _still_–! His reasoning for that was _obvious_! Junior wanted his money, and Richie didn't want a beating. _He had to do it_–! Why couldn't that man understand?

His face flamed, and he leant against the post, unsure of _what_ to think.

One of the horses turned away from him, nipping at another, then looking at him cautiously. They hadn't moved much, too focused on him to wander within the small area. He pulled the robe tightly around him, frowning. The morning was starting to peer over the snow covered mountains, and he watched it, hearing various prayers around him from those that greeted the sun. Turning away from the correl, he headed back to the camp, side stepping a small dog fight that had a couple of men cursing at them.

He didn't want to leave–but he knew he couldn't stay. Not knowing what the man wanted with him, how he knew he was even here–!

Frankly, Richie was mystified at the lengths this man was going for him. It sent a mixture of unidentifiable feelings through him, and he was absolutely torn at what to say, or do. He couldn't be scared his entire life–he just _couldn't_. If he talked to him within the safety of the camp, maybe...maybe things weren't as bad as he thought.

But anxiety pounded at him, making him question that line of thinking. Could he–could he approach him, talk to him? In a way, he wanted to–he wanted to know what the hell was going on with his motives. He wanted to know what the man was thinking when it came to him. It made him nervous, wary of the unknown–but these things, they were too much to ignore. To pretend that it wasn't happening.

In a way, did the good overshadow the bad?

He walked into the tent, seeing that people were still asleep. He felt comfortable with Turtle Moon–enough to entrust her with his secrets and short feelings, and she had a presence about her that made him feel comforted. He didn't feel like going back to sleep–but he didn't want to meet with the man just now. He sat where he'd lain earlier, chewing nervously at his nails, then making a face as he wiped his hands on his pants. He felt ridiculous wearing clothing that didn't fit him, image-wise; he heard the Indians laughing at him, mocking him for wearing their traditional clothing. But his own had been so wet, and Turtle Moon had done something to them...while some people wore cloth, they didn't have very much of it.

He picked at his boots, trying not to react to the sound of flatulence from someone laying nearby. But a man noticed, and groaned, muttering something that made another laugh. These people confused him, too, but he wasn't going to dwell on it. He'd rather not question them, for he had too many other things on his mind. He laid down, comfortably snuggling up against Punches-With-Many-Fists, who snored upon movement. He figured he may as well as try for some more sleep, and maybe figure out what to do, later.

That afternoon, he was busy lugging up water from a nearby stream, trying to ignore his embarrassment over the girls that handled the job easily. They were carrying two full buffalo bladders full of water while he was struggling with one. It sort of made him feel sick that water was being carried this way, in material that animals had used for their own bodily functions. The girls laughed loudly, then looked back at him–obviously talking about him. They were bigger than he was, something he wasn't quite proud of. He couldn't quite scowl at them, or say something–that was bad manners. One of them asked him a question, the other whacking her immediately. They hurried off, the first laughing as the other screamed at her.

Having no idea what that was about, Richie lugged the full bladder to the center of the camp, where the women were cooking both meals and boiling hides so that fur was easily scraped off. He handed the full bladder over, the woman in charge taking it easily, and gesturing at him to take the pile of innards in a metal bucket across camp. He was grossed out by the smell, the entrails that steamed, but he picked the bucket up and lugged that over as per her directions.

Finished with that, he was sent to do another chore by an elderly man that wanted his grandkids to play nearby, instead of racing around with other kids near the stream. Herding the kids back over to him, he was then sent across camp to help a couple of men groom their horses. Combing one with a wooden comb fashioned out of rough hair, he was thinking of how awkward he was with the animals when he felt that feeling of being watched, again. The hairs on his arm rose, and he stilled, just knowing that it was that man.

One of the men nearby signaled a question, wanting to know if he had family back home. Richie busied himself with answering, signaling a mother and father, trying to ignore that feeling of being watched. But he could feel the back of his neck warming, his cheeks flushing. It felt odd, being eyed this way–not knowing why, or what feelings were involved. The men carried a conversation with him, asking him why he was so smart; asking why he wanted to read. He answered carefully, unsure of some signals, but able to get by with their help.

The men grew tired of the conversation, and while he had questions, they disregarded them, ignoring him as they walked off.

He finished grooming the horse, feeling awkward as he was too short to reach certain places, and set the comb aside, walking off to find something more to do. His leg was starting to feel sore, but he didn't want to sit around–sitting around meant sitting cooped up, and sitting reminded him of being back at the saloon. He didn't want to be reminded of that place, and he strove to keep it out of his mind.

As he was walking back, he was aware that he was being followed. It made him feel weird, knowing that the man was following him. Watching him. All for what?  
>He hesitated, looking over his shoulder, spying him just a small distance away–why the attention? <em>Why<em>–?

He looked back fully, catching the man turning away quickly, as if he weren't even heading in that direction at all. But Richie knew–and he felt embarrassed at catching him, as if he were seeing something that he wasn't supposed to. He turned to continue on, mind racing–he veered off to Turtle Moon's tent, and hurried inside, grateful to see her there, beading with a bunch of other older women.

The older women snubbed him, purposefully ignoring him, but Turtle Moon excused herself and rose to her feet, greeting him fondly. She reached out, ruffling her large hand through his hair and offered him some of the bread she'd made earlier. It was still warm, and he took it gratefully, while she held out some dried pieces of buffalo. She then shooed him back out with his hands full of food, and he reluctantly left the tent, chewing on the bread.

A couple of the small children racing about paused and looked at him, and he looked back at them awkwardly–a single child, he wasn't sure how to interact with other children. Especially since he'd attended school so much, studying and learning rather than involving himself with playing and creating a general nuisance of himself like the others. He held out the dried pieces of meat, which they disregarded, pointing at the bread. But he liked it–he shook his head, eating it while they grew frustrated. One of them bent, picking up handfuls of mud and flung it at him. He skirted around the bombardment as a man's sharp voice rang out, the children chastised immediately for their behavior. They ran off in tears, Richie feeling bad, wondering if he should have just given the bread up.

So lost in his own thoughts and occupations, he had no idea just how fascinating and interesting he was to Hotstreak, who followed him more discreetly, embarrassed at himself for finding Richie so enrapturing.

That night, Turtle Moon was teaching him how to speak general sentences, accompanied with hand signals when Hotstreak once again entered the tent. Richie was more calm with him, now–he had convinced himself that he wanted to know why the attention. Turtle Moon huffed, saying something that made no sense to the two white men, then rose. Hotstreak reached out to flick her chest, completely shocking Richie that he'd be so blatant with a woman, and Turtle Moon screeched, slapping him once more. Hotstreak was stunned at the action, and Richie winced, touching his own cheek, as if he felt that slap.

Turtle Moon walked out, and Hotstreak rubbed his cheek, grinning in that foolish way he had. Looking at Richie, as if they were old friends, he said, "You know that's a man in drag, huh?"

Richie was stunned–there was no way Turtle Moon was a man. She–_he_–was very womanly in her actions, her mannerisms. Hotstreak studied him for a few moments, then visibly relaxed. That side of his face was bright red, a hand print forming perfectly where the hair hadn't reached. Richie stared at him for a few moments, trying to quell the nervous thumping of his heart and fear, swallowing hard as he forced himself to wait and relax.

Hotstreak looked away to sit nearby, where Turtle Moon's stew was currently bubbling in a metal pot over the fire. Richie swallowed again, struggling to formulate all his questions regarding Hotstreak's attention. His throat was dry–his tongue was heavy. But he just had to know–!

Hotstreak looked at him, then flicked at a couple of robes that were tied together–a present from Turtle Moon to a couple of her friends.

"How's your leg?" he asked gruffly, not looking attention to him.

Richie realized he hadn't thanked him for that, but how could he–? He nodded, speaking. His voice cracked, reminding him of his occasional tendency to squeak and crack throughout his conversations, and he cleared his throat once more. "Fine."

He couldn't say anything more.

"Everything heal up?"

Richie nodded once he realized he couldn't speak again. He looked quickly away, looking at the fire. His palms were sweaty, and he flexed them quickly, wiping them on his pants–feeling his skin flush with nervousness and appropriate discomfort.

Hotstreak looked at him–felt the quiver in his stomach upon seeing how the light of the fire softened Richie's face considerably, casting shadows that outlined his childish features. He wondered if he were one of those sick bastards that happened to prefer children to members of their own age–he just had to know if this kid was the age he claimed to be.

Still...even if he were lying...Hotstreak thought that he wouldn't care.

Too much.

Richie spoke quickly, almost too loudly as he blurted, "Thank you for my books! I–I had thought I'd never see them again."

Hotstreak nodded, saying nothing–sucking his bottom lip inward, feeling the hairs of his mustache scrape against the underside of his lip. He needed to trim the bastard–all of it. He was looking rather unruly–he hadn't seen it, but he could feel it all. Still, the facial hair helped considerably, considering the cold outside.

Richie realized he was staring too hard at the man, shifting nervously as he realized he wanted to look into those eyes, again. He was reminded how captivated he was with them–sending a jolt of uncomfortable feeling throughout his entire being. He was horrified to realize that his hormones were having a battle with the man's proximity, with smelling, hearing, and seeing him. Didn't he just _hate_ him a day ago?

He exhaled shortly, shifting–pulling a fur pelt over his lap to examine the neatly trimmed edges as he fought with his embarrassment and his hormones, hoping that the man wouldn't notice.

The awkwardness between the two was palpable as each fought not to look at each other, but ended up doing it, anyway. It was obvious neither of them knew what to do with their feelings, both of them confused and bewildered by it all. Richie nervously wondered when Turtle Moon would be back, and cleared his throat.

"I–that man, um...Virgil...he said your name was...Francis?"

Hotstreak immediately reacted with disgust over it, shooting him an annoyed look. "_Don't call me that_. Fuckin' dumb-ass name–!"

"I'm sorry," Richie said quickly, watching his hands carefully, looking to move to avoid any physical confrontation.

"Yeah, that's my real name, though," Hotstreak muttered. "But it's Hotstreak...People haveta call me Hotstreak."

Richie had a confused look on his face. "Did...did the Indians give you that name...?"

"No. It was...somethin' I made up. Kinda dumb, but it's better'n _Francis_."

Richie wondered why–_Francis_ sounded more agreeable, more civilized than Hotstreak. Hotstreak just...didn't work. But he was curious to know why. "What does it mean?"

Both of them were rather surprised at the conversation.

"Nothin'. Just...I guess I have a temper."

That made Richie's stomach curl inwardly, with fretting anxiety. He thought of Junior, always unhappy with something, always having something mean to say, and a fist to dish out.

Hotstreak must have sensed his trepidation, looking at him–finding himself unable to look away from the troubled expression on his face. "I mean, I ain't always dishin' shit out. Just...I...get frustrated, a lot. Sorta like...I dunno. It's not like I go around, wreckin' things. Just people that deserve it, or talk shit. Yanno?"

Richie still wasn't convinced of it, shooting him a cautious look.

Hotstreak began babbling, only because he wanted to clarify things. "I mean, _yeah_, I threatened you, but you look like a damn kid! I don't hit kids, or nothin', just–sometimes, people just get ta pissin' me off, an' it's like–I dunno, I just threatened you, I didn't do anything to you."

"You–!" Richie quickly cut himself off, looking away with a shamed expression.

Hotstreak immediately got what he was going to say, looking at him sharply. "I don't ever remember sayin' 'yeah' that night, either."

Richie looked at him, startled–then turned bright red, feeling incredibly hot. His clothes felt as if they were melting on him, and he couldn't swallow the lump that had forced its way into his throat. He tried to look away, but those accusing green eyes held him in place.

Hotstreak looked away, frowning. He pitched a rabbit pelt away from him. "I mean...not that you did anythin', right? An', anyway–it's even."

"That's horrid," Richie muttered, finally able to speak. "It's atrocious to think that you think it's all okay–!"

"Of course I don't think it's 'okay'," Hotstreak spat, looking at him. "But you are what you are!"

"That does not mean that I don't have a choice! I _didn't_ have a choice, that night!"

"How can you say that? Everyone has choices ta make, an' you made yours!"

"If I didn't–! They would have beaten me, and I was tired of all of that! I just wanted to obey so they wouldn't touch me, anymore!"

"You could have just taken the money, or pretended."

"I tried that a few times! It never worked–! The customers always complained to Junior, and he was furious at me!"

"...You talk funny."

"I didn't have a choice!" Richie repeated, ignoring that comment.

"How can they complain if they were–?"

"Men knew when they...er...are satisfied. And once they realized they feel nothing of it, they–" he lowered his voice, wondering if people were listening. Not that they would understand their conversation, as it was in English...but there were few that did. He didn't want these people knowing what he was forced to do. "...they complained. Their money was taken from them, and they complained. So...so Junior was forced to give them their money back. That made him angry. I couldn't...I couldn't NOT do anything, after that. I had to."

It was captivating the way Richie's lips moved when he spoke. Hotstreak was distracted by them–too much. He had no idea what he'd just said, and forced himself to focus. He felt it was insane that he was having such an intense physical reaction being this close to the kid. He was already hot, jeans too tight where they shouldn't have been. It was both frustrating and bewildering how this was.

"I've always regretted everything," Richie was saying, not looking at him. "I'm sorry for what I had to do. But what you did was worse."

"Yeah, I'll admit that," Hotstreak said, surprising them both. Awkwardly, he shifted, but he didn't want the kid to know that he was hard just being close to him; hearing him. It was like being a teen all over again–randy over anything that moved. It was a little humiliating for him, considering that he had trouble with the entire thing.

Richie looked at him upon the admittance; flustered in that tension was entirely too thick all of a sudden. It was as if they were too focused on each other–too aware. What was this barrage? Where was it coming from?

"I'm sorry," Hotstreak then apologized gruffly, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. Worn and faded, it was red–Richie vaguely remembered Virgil asking about it. "I am. I don't know what I was thinkin' back then. Just...some things are–hard ta control. I mean, y'know?"

Richie thought about it, but it still didn't excuse it. He didn't say anything, frowning at the ground underneath. It felt as if a weight was lifted from his chest–just talking to this man, it was–it was marvelous. He didn't know this man–Hotstreak. He didn't know Hotstreak at all, yet...yet all his admissions were making what had happened 'okay'. Just a little.

He shrugged a shoulder–he could smell Hotstreak. It was making him dizzy. He looked up at him, immediately noticing the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck. He abruptly remembered how defined his chest was, covered with light hair. His mouth suddenly grew wet, and his stomach tightened, cheeks flushing with mortified color as hormones once again sang with attention over the images.

Thankfully, Turtle Moon came back in, followed by Kills-Many-White-People and a couple of others that were eager to talk to Hotstreak.

Before he could forget, though, the redhead turned and looked at him, hitting his knee lightly to get his attention. "What's your name, man? I don't even know it."

Richie looked at him, considering his feelings for the moment–then told him.

Hotstreak snorted, frowning. "Yeah...guess it fits a pansy like you."

Richie had no idea what that meant, but he had an idea that it was derogatory. He lifted an eyebrow, saying, "I guess it does, _Francis_."

Hotstreak immediately scowled at him, but it quickly shifted into a smile that did flip-flops to Richie's stomach. Hotstreak hit him again, companionably, in the shoulder, and turned to insult Kills-Many-White-People on his choice of women..


	18. The Seven Bad Men

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Seventeen:  
>The Seven Bad Men<strong>

Their eyes glittered with a sort of dull, red light as they ran through the camp–their footsteps were light and swift, their bodies hunched slightly. The Seven Bad Men were shadows of infinite loyalty to the demon that was currently taking over America, and their goal was to search out any persistent threat to their master's life. They had found one, knowing that Blood, Inc. would be taken care of by another party. There were many people throughout the area that was a threat to Madelyne, the higher forces that be delivering unspoken messages to those that could take the demon down–to destroy her–and the Seven Bad Men would find them easily.

Locating their source of power and distinguishing them immediately with their dark and deadly forces.

So far, they had snuffed out twelve people that had the power to rid the world of Madelyne–and every day, a new one popped up. The higher forces–as there was always light to dark, good to evil–wanted to be rid of Madelyne. But this process was hindered the more the Seven Bad Men found those willing to accept the gifts given to them to stop her–the Seven Bad Men always smelt them out and destroyed them before anything more could happen.

Already, they'd accept that the members of Blood, Inc. were their greatest foes, and uneasily strong, but there were others out there that lacked their talents and were easy prey to the Seven.

Good continued to fail, but it was a stubborn lot–always searching out someone else and passing on the gift, then. The Seven Bad Men were tireless, though. They always found their soul.

They were all a variation of creatures–the leader a tall being, with ghostly white skin, broad shoulders and thin arms that resembled sticks–he wore a sort of cloth that wrapped tightly around his chest, just under his pierced nipples, tattoos of Tribal designs spread across his back. He wore a simple hood, a bandanna covering his lower facial features, leaving only his eyes visible–they were sunken so deeply within his skull that as they peered out, his brow bone seemed to overhang his face. Around those eye sockets were henna designs in a startling bright pink–a stark contrast to his pale white skin. His forearms were stringy, the ulna and radius visible, wrists holding thick bangles and bracelets that jiggled just slightly with movement. His feet were bare, resembling those of a rabbit's–only that sharp, curved claws jutted outward, leaving behind paw prints that didn't resemble any of the animals that most humans were familiar with. Around his ankles were more bangles, clinking lightly with every step.

The Second Bad Man was short, stout–with a barrel chest and legs that curved up and back like a dog's. He wore a short sleeve garment that folded across the front, long trails of material flapping between his legs and down over his backside–his arms were thickly muscled, the forearms covered in thick, gray fur. His hands were rounded paws with five sharp pins sticking out from the clefts. His head was bald, with ears like those of a rabbit's, pierced with round, gold hoops. His face was that of a normal human's–albino-featured and sharp, stark with a hawk beak nose.

The Third Bad Man was tall and thin, hair constructed upward into a high ponytail that was held with a bright purple bow–he had the shape of a normal human skull, only that his mouth dominated his entire face–a lipless opening that displayed two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. His arms were literally constructed out of twigs–bark-fingers welding a menacing looking club with human scalps hanging from the metal band that kept the study, blood-stained rocks in place.

The Fourth wore a black hood, eye holes cut out to reveal glowing red–it wore hide covered in undecipherable words and pictures running down the center. Around its necks were necklaces of human teeth and bones, jangling lightly with every movement it made. From underneath the robe of hides that it wore, cloven feet left behind ominous footprints. Its arms were sturdy pieces of metal held together by various bands of twine and rope, claw-like hands clutching scythes that were rusted and curved with seemingly misuse.

The Fifth had the head of a Kewpie doll–eyeless, blond hair frazzled and dreaded in various clumps, hanging over small breasts; nipples were taped over in ominous 'X's, ribs abnormally large and heaving, stomach concave. There were dark lines trailing from the empty eye sockets, as if constantly shedding black tears. Its doll-like arms hung limply at its sides, its body stocky and barrel shaped, stubby legs moving rapidly to keep up with the others.

The Sixth was a reptilian creature, it's flat face covered by a thin white mask, similar to those of Kabuki-style features. But it was held in place by ropes that had pierced the reptilian skin, two ponytails dangling from the sides of the round, scaly head. It was tall and sleek, scales shimmering black gossamer, robes covering only what was necessary–around its long, stringy arms were shriveled bands of flesh, marked with random slashes and scratches of black color.

The Seventh was that of dead flesh stretched to cover the bones of a non-human creature–standing exceedingly tall, around seven and a half feet, its skeletal structure was thick, harsh and long. A curved band of wood settled around the skeleton's face was stretched with some sort of reptilian skin, the eyes only slashes that revealed red underneath, the nostrils and mouth similar in hasty slashes of nothingness. From its back jutted two wing-like formations, bare of leather or feather–it was merely a framework of bone and cartilage. Its arms ended into gruesome lengths of claw-like fingers, bangles of human bones clacking with movement.

The Seven Bad Men moved quickly, easily avoiding the occasional Indian and animal that roamed throughout the camp at night. They were stealthy creatures, easily blending into the night and into silence, but they weren't capable of magic. Easily flawed as a human could be, one of them stumbled over someone's cold campfire site, bumping into two of his partners, and sending all three into the tent near the heart of the camp.

People awoke at the hissing, the surprised curses and shouts of those inside the tent. Like shadows, the Seven Bad Men hid as the tent collapsed, sending the camp into confused awakening as more shouts commenced.

Hotstreak jolted awake, automatically aiming his six-shooters at the shadows that were darting in front of him, Kills-Many-White-People slapping them down.

"Idiot! Someone's tent fell," the tired Indian cursed as Hotstreak began to determine their safety. Yawning, he slipped them back into their holsters, getting up to see what was going on. He followed two other men out from the tent to see bewildered people surrounding the fallen tent, a tired family being led to another tent; children protested sleepily as they were guided around the confusion. He rubbed his eyes, then his face, lazily surveying the challenge that was presented to them.

He looked over to see firelight dancing briefly over blond, and felt that uncomfortably strong feeling in his stomach–over how adorable he thought Richie looked as he sleepily looked over at the mess. Hotstreak imagined, briefly, what it would be like to see that face up close, in the middle of night–he had to stop thinking that way, shuddering in an effort to change his thoughts. He started to look away when movement behind Richie's tent caught his eye. He had to frown, squinting–bewildered in that he thought he saw an overlarge _doll_ walking around the place. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, looking away–the Indians were getting irritated at each other, he realized, watching men square off–apparently, more damage than necessary was done to that tent.

He looked over at Richie again, watching him signal briefly to Turtle Moon that he was going back to sleep–the man in drag nodded, and left the tent to talk with some women nearby. Hotstreak stared at the tent, wondering if he were alone in there–Running Elk had made a joke that Punches-With-Many-Fists went to bed early and got up late just because he was enamored of the boy; Running Elk walked away from that fight with a cut that had to be stitched and Punches-With-Many-Fists sullenly laying in his parents' tent across camp.

Still...he shouldn't push things...but...maybe he could leave Kills-Many-White-People to sleep in Turtle Moon's–to be near Richie. It was odd how much Hotstreak wanted to–the urge pushed him as he decided on that, retrieving his jacket and sparse belongings, and heading over to her tent. Walking in, he set things aside, undecided in etiquette on how to get Turtle Moon to see his way in staying here, also.

Richie was curled up in bed, near the fire, back to him. Hotstreak stared at him in silence, reveling in how small he was–the way the light of the fire reflected off his hair. He was starting to accept how serious he felt for the kid; while a subject of scorn and disgust, Hotstreak really didn't think homosexuality was all that bad if he felt such good things for another male. Frankly, he really wasn't exposed to enough scorn and attention in that such considerations were unacceptable. Accepting it more and more gave him more time to admire and see more of the kid, anyway. Why waste time with more questions when he could just _feel_?

The fire was small–casting enough light to illuminate the small area around it. He quietly settled into the blankets and hides, reveling in the warmth–Turtle Moon sure liked the warmth in her tent. He wanted to reach out and touch Richie–to draw him close like he had that one night. But he was afraid of Richie's reaction to that, so he just settled close enough for him to smell him.

He was about to shut his eyes to sleep when he heard the jingling–it struck him as odd because he didn't know why any Indian would wear something so noisy at night. He listened to the odd jingling that seemed to focus its attention near the back of the tent–he could hear voices on the other side, so it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. He started to put it away within the back of his mind when he heard the first slash of knife through hide–it startled Richie, too, sitting up with a confused expression.

Once he saw Hotstreak, though, the kid froze, staring at him with a bewildered expression. Hotstreak didn't see that expression, staring at the obvious blade that slashed through the tent's back wall, fingers curling in to draw the hide aside–someone was obviously trying to be sneaky with the attack. He pulled out his guns as Turtle Moon slipped inside, intending to snap at him before she saw her tent being pulled apart.

She shrieked, calling out an alarm as the hides were shoved apart, the Fourth sticking its head in, making all three cry out in alarm. The tent came down suddenly, and everything erupted into confusion. Turtle Moon was screaming frantically, warriors quickly running at them, while the snarls of an animal erupted into the night, dogs barking in alarm.

The camp erupted into that of alarm and confusion–women, children and the elderly quickly leaving for safety, warriors quickly arming themselves; the horse herd was quickly mobilized, guarded by those that thought members of another tribe was launching an attack and intending to steal them. Dogs ran about, barking noisily, while human confusion made the entire process much more complicated.

The Fourth managed to sweep the falling tent away from itself, presenting itself to the band of warriors. Standing in its proud glory, it exhaled with a hissing action, weapons displayed, catching the light of the fire. The various shadows made it more ominous, much more demonic–utterly out of place among the humans that it faced. Confusion and horror swept in, the other six demons revealing themselves with menacing snarls and sounds of unearthly detail. They were settled in various directions throughout the small area, surrounding the tent–startling people that had been standing near them. As their features were taken in with horrified stares, utter silence descended upon the camp.

Hotstreak, as he struggled out and away from the tent, was appalled that he'd managed to drag these things to these people that had accepted him as they did. Forgetting about Richie, he had his guns out and began firing instantly, hollering for his horse.

Immediately, the Fourth was up and leaping away, darting into the shadows like a rat. The others scattered with menacing hisses and wails, the blood curdling sounds interrupting the shouts of humans and animals. Hotstreak headed off into the direction the Fourth had taken, spotting the Sixth, and firing at it. The ghastly creature was quick, fluid-like in movements as it hissed and avoided his bullets easily–blending into the shadows to escape him. He ran after them, fearless in his advances–used to monstrocities.

Warriors were mounting their ponies, drawing up their own guns and weapons, chasing after the scattering Seven. Richie, meanwhile, managed to escape the collapsed tent, nearly ran over by a couple of warriors riding their mounts, chasing after the Second.

Hurriedly, he escaped the confusion, then reacted with alarm once he realized he'd left his books. He ran back to the tent, frantically struggling with material to search for the leather pack. Incredible luck had him escaping the pounding hooves of horses and frantic humans and demons as they ran about. He escaped the tent once more, swinging the pack onto his back, running off into a random direction as gunshots blazed all around him. More tents fell, creatures screamed–he had to duck behind the small correl to escape a dog blazing with fire, screaming loudly. Peering out, he saw that demonic creatures were quickly slicing through the attacking Indians with indifference, searching each and every one for a specific person. They sliced through tents and chased after women, shrieking and hissing all the while.

They easily slew the Indians with their blades and weapons–the Second was easily dispatching of them by using its bare limbs to tear heads from bodies. It was a horrifying sight to see, something that he didn't want to witness–yet, he was watching it with terrified eyes, unable to look away.

Metallic jangling had him looking up, to see the Third running at him, bow bouncing in place–once he realized that it was really coming at him, Richie froze; just staring at the monstrosity with fear and bewilderment. It was the ridiculous bow that had him moving, avoiding the club just in time–the heavy stone smashed through the wooden post, knocking aside the carefully constructed west section of the correl. Horses screamed in alarm upon the new scent and the threat, about climbing all over each other in their efforts to escape.

Richie quickly passed through the creature's long legs, scrambling for the camp once more as the creature stumbled, running after him with a series of incoherent words. Quickly, Richie ran through the group of tents, frantically looking for a way of escape. He ducked suddenly when the thin slash of air created by metal swept through the dark, narrowly missing him as the Second extended its long fingers. The two Bad Men attacked him, and he narrowly missed all their attacks, ducking and dodging, finally darting behind a tent to escape them. The Second swept through the tent, charging after him as the Third leapt over the collapsed mess to join its brother.

Richie wasn't sure where to go or what to do, looking over his shoulder to see them catching up easily–his ankle wrenched at that moment, sending him tumbling into a tent, separating material from pole. He reached out for some sort of support to get him back up, fingers curling automatically on the handle of a pot–he swept that up, intending to throw it at the Second when its claws slashed into the metal, catching; he took that moment to wrench the pot upward, taking the Second off its balance. He shoved it aside with both feet, sending it tumbling into the Third as it lurched into view. As he was scrambling to his feet, his fingers curled around a rifle–feeling incredibly lucky, he ran out from the tent, in utter disbelief that he'd escaped that situation. He looked up just in time to see the Sixth lunging at him; he turned, a foolish and yet lucky mistake–the club bounced right off his books, but sent him flying across the muddied dirt.

The Sixth tittered in a high-pitched voice, squealing, "You're dead, now!"

It lunged at him, club held high–Richie turned onto his back, steadied the rifle, and fired–the blast sent the surprised demon back into the air, flying into the dirt with horrific screams of pain, convulsing as it clawed at the widening wound in its chest.

Richie didn't hesitate this time–climbing hastily to his feet, he ran off for the light–realizing that fire had caught onto the tents, and were spreading thunderously throughout the camp, sending up a horrid smell as hide burned.

People were screaming, animals were shrieking–the demons were shouting at one another. He heard the various gunshots, and avoided those riding through the devastation–there were bodies throughout the damage, and he regretted seeing it. But he picked up various guns along the way, figuring they were all the same–hoping they were loaded. Hoping they wouldn't jam. He wasn't sure how many shots he'd have with the rifle, so he tossed it aside, fumbling with a long-range rifle.

He stumbled over the body of Turtle Moon–he wished that he'd had a chance to thank her for all that she'd done for him. Movement at the corner of his eye prompted him to look up, seeing the Third barreling toward him–he quickly propped the gun into a somewhat comfortable position and fired as soon as he had the chance; the demon sprawled into a tent, gurgling as streams of black liquid hit the air.

He tossed that rifle aside, and headed off, searching for a place to hide–there really wasn't a place to run to, so he just ran straight ahead; leaving behind the devastation.

That next morning, cold and exhausted, Richie was walking back, following the stark black column that drifted into the cloudy sky. He'd run quite a distance last night, and his limp was more pronounced, his leg aching with every step–but there wasn't a way he'd sit and rest. Not when it was so cold...not when he needed to know what had happened, last night.

He walked over the eastern sloping hill that overlooked the Indian camp and froze, a look of desolation on his face. From his advantage point, he could see that the entire place had been ripped apart; burnt; destroyed. Bodies lay everywhere; animals lay torn apart and broken. He stared in horror at the sight, taking in the utter destruction that had been wrought. The cold air made it difficult to smell, and for that he was somewhat thankful–but he held an arm against his nose and trudged downward, to investigate and search for survivors.

Staring in silence at the bodies he came to, he realized that despite the women, children and elderly immediate leave of the camp, they all had been dragged back and torn apart. The more he walked into the camp, the more bodies he came to. He gingerly stepped over entrails and shattered bones–over the strangled mess of animals that had been ripped apart like stuffed toys. Fire had spread from tent to tent, burning slowly–leaving behind a wretched smell. Blackened corpses littered the inside ring of the camp, grim faces stretched into thin, awkward smiles. He finally pulled back out, hurrying away from the camp–hardly able to stifle the heavy feelings of stress and shock that he felt upon seeing such a sight.

He was gasping for air, searching for something stable when his eyes caught on a lone figure and horse atop of the hill that had once overlooked the horses' grazing grounds. He sucked in a breath, squinting to try and discern who it may be–then headed in that direction.

Once the horse looked back at him upon hearing his footfalls, Richie realized that he was looking at Hotstreak. The utter joy that shot through him was immense, and he felt more than uplifted upon knowing that this man had survived. He hurried along, pushing himself to go faster to meet up with him. The deadly silence of the area, once bustling with activity and sounds, was depressing. The stallion continued to stare at him, looking as dejected and forlorn as his master. His thick head drooped, neck seeming to be heavier than he could handle–Richie stared at the stallion cautiously before reaching their left side, the heavy jangle of his rifles finally catching Hotstreak's attention.

Hotstreak looked down at him in surprise, and Richie stared up at him with surprise, as well. For it was obvious the big man was crying. There was no mistaking the redness of his eyes, the utterly defeated expression on his face. Being that of a redhead, there was no way he could hide the effects from anybody. It just seemed to make his skin more red, for the puffiness to stand out more.

Seeing this made Hotstreak more human, more like him. Not the cold, indifferent man he was treated to before. He looked away, with nothing to say; Richie continued staring up at him, feeling rather empty as he took in the silent tears, the way the redhead wiped his nose with a worn piece of cloth. Charger even allowed him close, not even bothering with nipping at him, or trying to step on him. Dejectedly, the stallion lowered his head, bowing deep as he, too, regarded the emptiness of the grazing grounds with sad eyes.

Richie fiddled with his short nails, then looked away–saying nothing, he wasn't sure what to do or think as he stared over the fires that continued to burn. Once the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of burnt bodies, he covered his nose with his arm, and began walking away. He eyed the camp apprehensively, wondering what those creatures wanted. Why they would kill so many without regard. He wondered where they went–they couldn't have gone far...

Hotstreak looked over at him, still in the throes of the miserably depressed. He was waiting to feel the utter joy that he knew was there deep inside of him upon knowing that Richie was still alive, but it was heavily squashed by the weight of his depression as he looked upon the camp. He kept hearing Virgil's words–"_You kill all us off, now you gonna lead them to kill everyone else?_"

Those creatures had killed every soul that had resided at that camp–they couldn't get to him. He felt it unfair that they couldn't kill him, but they killed every defenseless victim and proud warrior that they could. People he knew–people he laughed and joked with. People that had been friendly and welcoming–and they were dead because of him. _All of them_.

He felt wholly responsible for each and every death that was visible on those camp grounds. He couldn't look at them, too shamed and suffocated by guilt to do so. But he felt responsibility–he should do something for them–but their scouts that patrolled their territory borders were out and about, and if they came back–

They'd be raring for a fight with him. And he didn't want to fight them–but at the same time, he just wished someone would do him in, for all the murders he'd caused. All the needless deaths, all the destruction.

He stared off into the snow covered hills, sightless and deaf to everything around him. He felt that curdling deep inside–as if someone were sticking his insides and heart with a pitchfork. He felt entirely sick to the stomach once smelling the bodies that burned–he thought of the helpless victims that had been dragged out from their hiding places, slaughtered messily. Once the warriors went down, the others were easy pickings.

Bile crept up his throat, and he swallowed hard. He kept seeing the remains of children lying amongst the bodies of their mothers.

Blinking away the tears that continued to fall unhindered, he stared out at the snow covered mountains and wondered when it would just _stop_.

When he would stop having so many people killed because of his mistakes. For being alive.

The cold swept through him, abruptly reminding him that the elements were just as deadly. Looking up at the sky, he could see that another storm was coming in. Wordlessly, he wiped his face, twisting in the saddle to look back for Richie. He could see the blond moving about down below, pulling bodies toward the camp–making it easier for the others to find. Remembering that he'd been here longer, Hotstreak realized that Richie probably knew the others' schedules. They were probably coming in, soon–and he didn't want a confrontation. He didn't want to kill anymore people.

He watched him work for a small while, then urged Charger down. The stallion went reluctantly, not liking the smells that were wafting their way. Fighting him for a bit, Hotstreak made sure he was more composed of himself–uncaring of what image he presented with his shedding of tears. Everything was just so pressing–! He felt like just ending it all with a gun barrel in the mouth, and doing away with it.

Richie stopped his work, looking up to see the stallion and man approach. Turning away from the old man's body, he watched Hotstreak approach, shielding his eyes from the glare of the snow.

"The scouts will be back, soon. They're supposed to trade off–"

"Let's go," Hotstreak interrupted gruffly, lightly surveying what was nearby, then looking away. Feeling wholly responsible for the slaughter.

Richie frowned, lowering his hand. "They'll think we did it! I can't just–I can explain to them–!"

"Don't be fucking stupid!" Hotstreak snapped at him. "We're _white_, dip-shit. They been fighting with whites since they set foot, here. They ain't gonna believe us!"

"_But_–!"

"Get one of those fucking robes an' let's go! I don't wanna be responsible for killin' more of 'em!"

Richie sullenly stared at him, refusing to budge. He didn't think it was right to cut out, before they could explain what had happened to the entire camp. He felt that if he explained to the other warriors, they would be understood. He couldn't quite understand Hotstreak's reasoning to leave so abruptly–even though it made sense.

Hotstreak realized that Richie didn't agree with him, and felt his face twist with maddened impatience. Instantly, Richie paled considerably, and he scurried off before Hotstreak could even follow through with any form of threatening.

Feeling absolutely low and devious, Richie snatched a buffalo robe off of a woman, whispering apologies and condolences as he did so. He removed the rifles from his back, setting them aside to carefully pull on the robe. His hands were shaking as he pulled it on, tying the ties that kept it together, making sure that there was enough hide to cover his head as a hood. Every movement he made was slow and deliberate–as if he were moving underwater.

He thought of Junior's impatient anger, the way he'd slap and snarl at Richie if he were moving too slow, or questioning him too much. It was strange how much he missed the younger Alva–he felt so bad for allowing him to die the way that he had.

After all, despite his abuse, Junior had tried to keep him safe, and had provided safety for him–as limited as it was.

Slowly, with much aggravation to his leg, he began walking back to the stallion and man that was waiting for him; watching every movement. Sullenly, he pulled hide over his head in an attempt to hide his expression–yet he feared any sort of abuse from this man. He slung the rifles he had over one shoulder–clumsily adjusting the slings to fit his robe-covered frame.

Silently, Hotstreak held out a hand and helped him up onto the horse, Charger protesting the extra weight with a neighing noise, accompanied with the snapping of teeth toward Richie's leg. Hotstreak sent a heel into his stomach, and the horse sullenly plodded forward, ignoring more orders to move faster.

He didn't bother with looking at the devastated camp–keeping his head averted as Charger walked out from the area. Richie watched everything, mournful over the entire event–he kept seeing the creatures in his mind's eye, detailing everything that he saw of them. Mentally examining every movement, every strength and weakness that the creatures displayed.

Awkwardly, he stretched his arms around Hotstreak to hold himself in place–unmindful of the hugging contact, just wanting to make sure he stayed on the horse. He leaned against his back, wincing briefly at the smell of Hound fur, and stared in silence as they walked on.

He didn't know that Hotstreak was wholly grateful for the contact–the way he felt some comfort from the hug from behind. It just allowed him to continue to cry silently over all that had happened...because he felt it was his fault.

**010101010110**

Madelyne frowned as the First relayed his report. His telepathic abilities were just as clear as hers, just as vocal–she disliked the information that came from him, his beady red eyes staring into her with intense loyalty. Sitting nearby, Caine frowned.

He was stroking his chin, trying to place the images that the First relayed when he suddenly burst into laughter. "That one's still living, eh?" he shouted, slapping his knee. "Dropped off the map, for awhile!"

Madelyne cast him an exasperated look, shifting out of the image of the teenage girl to that demonic form she'd transformed into, recently. The Seven Bad Men recoiled at the sight of her, hissing quietly amongst themselves as they eyed her with wary regard. Her four arms shifted restlessly as she moved, tittering her deformed voice as she played lightly with her stark bob of hair.

"That one, m'dear, was part of the boys that tried to rob our train. Haven't seen nor heard from him, in a while. Thought he got hisself kilt a while back." Caine delightfully recalled the rather sullen-faced redhead that had, along with Blayne, been a nuisance to their armies earlier on. But he frowned, gruffly clearing his throat. "You say he was with one of our troublemakers?"

The First nodded grimly, specifying his claims with mental images and words. Caine winced. "I simply hate when you all get into my head. _Knock it off_."

"Deal with it, father," Madelyne said sternly. "It's the only way they communicate. I don't care how much affection you have for this boy, I won't have him around, doing this little Superman effort for someone that wants to destroy me! These people keep popping up–! I have a new group of men and women banding together just to play with the idea of my destruction! Knowing that I'm being targeted makes me mad, daddy! I want it to stop!"

Caine tried to suppress the raging headache that pounded at his thin temples. His 'daughter's' whiny voice was starting to really pound away at his brain.

"Fine, fine. Do something about it. You're the almighty one of darkness, honey."

"I think I'm just going to ignore that one person–this group of others makes me wary. There's so many popping up–!" Madelyne reached for the human-skin book nearby, clutching it to her chest with the shorter arms, apprehensively playing with her hair with the other two hands. "I hate this. This was supposed to be easy! Why is it taking so long?"

Caine sighed tiredly, dropping his head back. "Stop your whining..."

"I thought we'd be faster and better than this, daddy! I hate taking so long! We're not even NEAR the East coast, yet!"

"I'm going for a walk, dear. Calm yourself. And, for the record, do you really want to let that one individual go? It's going to bite you in the ass, one day, Mad. You might want to think about that."

Madelyne huffed, staring at the Seven Bad Men with a contemplative look. She pointed at the First, Fourth, and Seventh. "Do something about it."

The three nodded solemnly–as demons, they were hard to kill. Bullets wounded them, but hadn't killed them. So far, nothing of their demise came close–humans were slain quickly under their talents.

The others looked about helplessly, waiting for orders.

"You four–do something about this group. Watch them, for me. Report to me on their doings, on who they pick up."

_As for Blood?_ The First asked curiously, his mental voice loud in her head.

"Um...well, I'm having that worked on," Madelyne decided, a tone of uncertainty in her voice. She shooed them away. "_Go_!"

The three disappeared in puffs of brimstone and smoke, while the other four scurried off into the darkness. Worriedly, she shifted back into teenage form, biting her lowered lip. She opened the book that she'd held to her breast, shifting through the thin, yellowed pages until she reached the back section. She had the faces, and the names–but their talents were unknown, to her. They were the specified souls destined to bring her down, destined to slay her and restore order to the world of chaos she had wrought. She worried about them, but felt confident that her army would succeed. She scratched off four pictures and names–recently slain heroes that would never harm her again.

But the ones that were still living...she frowned at the various faces, pondering their roles in her fate.

There was the Knight, the Hero, the Wizard, the Magician–there was also the Hanging Man, the Star, the Ghoul-in-Disguise; there was the Queen, the Inventor, the Illusionist. So many different titles, so many different talents–all that, if combined, could severely hurt her. Could destroy her.

She lingered on the Sheep, the Coward, the Murderer–all titles that were deceptive to their true roles. They were titles that hid their main roles–these people were just as important as the Hero, the Knight, the Inventor; she wouldn't take them lightly.

She already knew that all were aware of each other–they'd all already met in some way, or another. Thirteen souls that could overtake her army of hundreds of thousands–and only one was destined to kill her by his own hand alone. Supporting characters kept the main characters alive–she wasn't sure which one to take down, first. The main characters were already starting to worry her in their roles–they just didn't die. The supporting characters switched with each death, but _they were always there_. There was always another to fit that role that had been killed.

Sighing, she shut the book, then opened it–to figure out how to conjure more creatures, to figure out more plans. She would win–she was too competitive NOT to.


	19. The Night Has Been Unkind

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Nineteen:  
>The Night Has Been Unkind<strong>

They were looking at a large town–liveries, blacksmiths, stables, General Stores, sheriff's office, saloons, train depot; the works. Telegraph lines were already strewn throughout the area, streaming out towards the East. A river ran through the middle of town–small, but lively. And there were people–so many people. The four riders were astounded, all wondering if this town had been hit, yet, and if so–how did they survive when everyone else had fallen to chaos and panic?

Virgil pushed ahead, noticed immediately by those leading along buckboards with lumber, carriages with suspicious faces–everyone had an air of terseness about them. The town looked weathered with their brown buildings, their faded brick; but the more they rode in, the more they saw tarnishes of a war. Most of the standing buildings had bullet holes in them–stains were apparent in the moist wood. Windows were boarded over, and there were men with guns–standing about, guarding the area with suspicious regard.

"Wow," he muttered, looking around in amazement. "This place been hit, an' they still standin'!"

Adam nodded in agreement, tipping his hat toward a small family that stared at them with concern. They returned the greeting with cautious smiles–it wasn't as if the pair were treated unfavorably; it looked as if the town was just weary.

Still, judging from the activity and the obvious preparation this town took against the unnatural invaders, it was evident that this is where Junior would stay. It was a pointed, un-voiced sort of command, and Junior felt it coming from the other three without even looking at them. He was healed as best as he could be for the moment–though the first few weeks had been tough. His injuries had made it hard for him to cooperate with life in general, but it was the only real time he'd first felt pain.

Since he didn't get along with any of them, recognizing that they only took him in because they were kind and caring, he'd had plenty of time to think. Every jarring bump to his ribs, every twitch of his mouth, every painful bruise and contusion that throbbed on his body due to Paul's attack made Junior more aware of his mortality–and of his wrongdoings.

He had plenty of time to think–and a short time to change.

Sullenly, but definitely not complaining, Junior eyed the town, studying everyone as they studied them. He recognized no one, and realized that he wouldn't be finding his father, or their workers, here. This left him feeling dejected and lonely–hurting painfully from within over everything that had happened in his past. The others were going to leave him, here–he knew how they felt about him, and he didn't blame them. He kept thinking of how the whores–God, he felt so shamed for not knowing their names, for reveling in his abuse of power and control over hapless human beings that had been ripped from all their comforts and homes just to serve him and his father–would express their fear and pain to him, and he'd ignored and abused every one.

He had to wonder how in the world he'd come to live like that. He regretted it all, now that he knew what they felt. He truly did.

Along their journey, they'd come across more supplies from the fallen, and Junior had come across warm clothing and a horse. He kept thinking about what had happened to the boy; he felt very awful for losing him, knowing that he was more defenseless than he was. It made him deeply sick, and it was just another regret he had to live with.

Everyone was cold, tired, hungry, thirsty–they were looking forward for some rest before moving on. But they knew they were going to separate from Junior, and the younger Alva knew this. Muttering a "appreciate it", he moved his horse away from the others, and dejectedly headed off into another direction different from theirs. The others didn't say anything, watching him leave.

"Well, that's the last we'll see of that bastard," Virgil decided as Junior disappeared around a corner. Randy nodded in agreement, and Virgil gave Adam a somewhat cheerful look. "Kinda makes it all worth it, y'know?"

"Eh. Prolly. Who knows? He been quiet the last few days. All this trip, actually."

"Hope he's thinkin' about all the wrong he gone an' done throughout his life," Virgil muttered. "I mean...he's one of the worst..."

Adam agreed, shrugging a shoulder idly. It had been a long ride–a long journey. Every town they'd come across was empty, desolate–apparently in devastation after hordes of Underworld demons ravaged it. They'd run into various people along the way, but everyone had been dangerous after the attacks. Growing mean, selfish, desperate–more than a few times they'd fallen into gun battles, taking lives and saving their own. The entire way, Junior was quiet, reserved–sullen and pouty but refusing to overstep boundaries. Virgil had deducted that the man had 'smartened up some' and changed some of his ways, recognizing that he hadn't a chance by himself in the wildness among the chaos.

In a way, Adam had felt some pity for the man–even when Virgil didn't. Adam felt pity for Junior because, in the end, Junior was just as defenseless and helpless as those he terrorized–and he knew that the younger Alva _knew_ this. It was about time he found some payback for all that he'd done, but Adam couldn't help but feel that way about him. He didn't share this with Virgil, though–the man was vehement in his dislike for Junior that nothing changed his opinion.

"Well," Virgil shifted in his saddle. "Where to, boys?"

"Let's shack up, first, then clean up. Look for some grub," Adam announced, touching his face with experimenting feeling. "Wanna shave right, for once. Wanna be clean. I know I can't smell it, but I know I be smellin' somethin' funky..."

"You got that right," Virgil muttered playfully, leading Sparky off, asking a passing gunman where they could find someplace to stay.

That night, in a small saloon, Junior was nursing a much-needed drink, staring sightlessly off at the corner. Money wasn't used anywhere in the town–trade and bartering were used. He'd traded off some ammo and a nice leather jacket for a half bottle of Red Eye Pete. It was wonderful to feel his throat burned by the liquid as he swallowed, to feel the effects spreading throughout every limb. He kept thinking about all the wrong doings he'd ever done to get this far, so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the men calling his name, excitedly joining him at the bar. Not until Specs slapped him with real excitement did he notice them, gaping incredulously as they companionably greeted him. Casey, Jerry, Specs and Trapper, and Mitch–all looked worn and older than they actually were, but they were there.

And hope flared in him, wondering if his father was nearby. He wouldn't be alone–and that feeling felt amazing.

He greeted them just as cheerfully, all of them oohing and awing at the same time, all of them excited to be reunited and knowing that the other was still alive. It didn't take long for Junior to learn that Alva had taken control of the town–the elder Alva had taken over as soon as the small town was discovered, and laid down his own law. An experienced fighter, mainly in business but living long enough to know a few tricks of his own, Alva had learned his own way around the zombies and accompanying creatures, and had set up the law here. The town had been nothing until they'd shown up–he ruled mightily, and people were grateful for his control.

It didn't surprise him that his father had taken over, using his knowledge and power to do so. Not at all.

But that wash of righteous indignant anger swept over him–wondering why Alva hadn't looked for him.

"You guys couldn't find me, huh?" Junior asked as he was led to Alva's Victorian mansion downtown–the area heavily guarded by rough-looking gunmen. Casey tossed him a somewhat sheepish expression.

"We tried," he said, faltering. "But...your daddy wanted us here."

Junior stared at his trusted friend for a few moments, then narrowed his eyes. "He would have come back for me, right?"

Casey chose not to answer that, pointing out a couple of other men that Junior was familiar with. Amid all the greetings and ostensible cheer, Junior couldn't help but feel that sinking feeling in that Alva hadn't bothered for him at all.

He had _known_–but actually realizing that it was true was a whole different feeling.

The house was nicely kept–he even kept house servants, women milling about with their cleaning supplies and tired expressions. Junior wondered what happened to Jessie–he wouldn't forget THAT one's name–and Teresa. He had some vague confidence in that Teresa would do as she was told, no matter how dire the situation. She was smart that way–but feisty enough to keep from breaking totally.

Casey led the way through a few halls–this mansion was bigger than any building Junior was familiar with–and knocked politely at a heavy oak door, walking in at the gruffly given permission.

Junior was right behind him as Casey greeted Alva politely, then stepped aside to reveal the younger Alva. Already, Junior was feeling angry at his father–rejected, brushed aside–and didn't exactly feel the warmth of happiness upon seeing the older man.

Alva looked as if he'd aged twenty more years atop of his already old age–his gray hair was nearly white, there were added wrinkles on his face, and he'd looked as if he'd lost a few pounds. But as he studied his son, rising from the leather chair on which he sat to greet Junior with nothing more than a scowling expression, it was obvious Alva was just as powerful as he had been, before.

Junior stared at his father for a few moments, then with unconscious regard, not even knowing he did it, he waved for Casey and the two older men that sat with Alva outside. With some confusion, the two old men looked at Alva for confirmation, Casey leaving with casual attitude at the forceful command–Alva nodded at the men to follow, sitting once more in his seat to regard his son with a studious expression.

Junior felt himself fuming, his limbs filling with disbelieving rage that his father could regard him so casually–just knowing that Alva hadn't put any effort into looking for him was enough for him to stare venomously at him, wondering..._why_?

Alva studied him, from top to bottom, then lifted his coffee cup, stern eyes cutting away with nothing more than impatient regard. "You're alive," he said simply, his voice more graveled than before.

"Yeah, I'm still alive," Junior spit angrily, staring at him. "You didn't even look for me, didya?"

"I didn't have the time, nor the manpower to divide between our survival, and to search for you. As I learned of it, you went on a drunken rampage that morning, took the boy, and disappeared wherever you went. I'm assuming you got rid of him?"

Furiously, Junior curled his fingers into fists, feeling his face fill with red.

Alva set his cup down carefully, eyes sweeping over various documents in front of him. "No one had any idea where you went–Runner's Valley was a big territory. We were attacked that same day–we barely split with our lives, Junior. I could not afford to give up what little men we had left to go search for you and lost profit."

"I'm your _son_! Don't that mean anythin'?"

Alva regarded the question carefully, then looked at Junior with a level expression. "Of course!" he finally snapped, giving him another impatient expression. "But I couldn't afford to let some of the men go–not after counting our losses. We lost all but seven of our men–and we couldn't afford to go back. We just had to continue forward..."

Junior was aghast at how coldly Alva spoke–as if, his own blood relative and heir, was nothing more than a product.

"Once we were settled here, I didn't have the time to organize a search party, and besides–I figured you on surviving and eventually locating us. I made this town into a town that everyone can depend and rely on. We have settlers and survivors coming in every day. The train is equipped with–"

"I don't wanna know about that!" Junior cried, ripping his hat from his head.

"Settle yourself, Junior!" Alva snapped, glaring at him. "You're not one of those roughnecks you used to hang out, with. I've raised you to be better than that."

"You didn't even _look_ for me, dad!"

"Where's the boy?" Alva then asked, over what he thought was the pathetic whine of his son's voice.

Junior glowered at him, feeling all the fight leave him, then. He was just too exhausted to fight–too broken by his own revelations and by his father's seemingly cold-hearted choice. He shrugged tiredly. "I dunno. He–he's just gone."

Alva sighed, impatiently as he ran his eyes up to a point above Junior's head–mentally calculating the loss. Junior stared at him in disgust, just knowing what his father was going to say, next. "I've only got two girls, workin'. Bringing in more ammo, more men. That boy would have helped our profits considerably–we didn't have that many to begin with, Junior, and you up and lose that one. _Brand_ new! The girls gotta keep on workin', then. We're gettin' in a few more by the fifteenth...that should raise more of our weapons cache, and draw in more prospective guns into Luna...bringing us more people in need of protection and stability..."

Junior's expression of disgust turned into that of hatred. He slapped his hat back atop of his head.

Alva stopped talking aloud, and looked at him with considerable measure. "Where are you going? I can have a room prepared for you, if you like. I'd like you to take over where you left off–you were doing rather well with keeping the whores in line–"

"I ain't doin' _nothin_' for you," Junior sneered, turning to leave the room.

Alva rose quickly in his seat, slapping his hands atop of his desk. "_You stop right there, boy_! Don't you dare turn your back on _me_, or _my orders_! You intend to live with me, you work _with_ me–do as _I_ say. I raised you in this business, Junior, and for you to turn against it, having seen some _ridiculous_ light along your travels–or is it because you're sore at me for not sending out a search party to look for your drunken ass? As far as I'm concerned, this little detour taught you a much-needed lesson. You were getting entirely too damn cocky with that attitude of yours–thinkin' you can rule the world–you _had_ to be taught this lesson! You survived what you did, that just made you a stronger person. Don't think that you gotta change for some–better purpose," Alva's face twisted at the words, "and think you can leave me. It's the survival of the fittest! The strongest! God is weeding out the weak with this–gruesome uprise of His, and it's fitting that the strongest take over where the remaining cannot. And we are the strongest, Junior. I raised you better–!"

Junior snorted, shaking his head. He gave his father a withering expression over his shoulder, and left the room, saying nothing more. Incredulous, Alva stared at the doorway, listening to the sound of his furious footfalls down the hall.

"You'll be back!" he shouted angrily. "And when you do, you _apologize_ to me! Foolish brat..."

**010101010110**

Richie angrily tossed a rock at the bawing herd of sheep, all of whom followed each other around in frantic circles, alarmed by his presence and Charger's. The horse had amused him at first; Charger, upon seeing the wooly animals huddling together for warmth, had ran into and through them like an excited dog. Until sheep started getting hurt and panicked with screaming noises, scrambling all over each other as the horse terrorized them.

_Better them than me_, Richie had thought, until it became impossible to catch one of the wooly things.

Two weeks here in this small, desolate area, and he'd already managed to learn to take care of himself, and gathered enough curiosity and determination to examine the land and its contents. Finding the sheep herd had been somewhat satisfying–finding the cow herd had been grand. There was a burnt-out shell of a train sitting on broken tracks not that far from here, and inside he'd discovered skeletons of dead cows, sheep, passengers–and evidence that many animals still lived. He'd taken Charger and found the animals in the surrounding area–taking time out to construct his own holding pens and repairing a correl for the animals he planned on keeping.

They'd arrived here in this area, and the first house they'd come to–Hotstreak had left him. Simply left his horse, left no word or look, and shut himself in that house. At first, both horse and boy were confused, standing outside, waiting–not knowing what to do. Then Charger had grown tired of his weight, and Richie had been bucked off–it took him awhile to catch the damn animal, and even longer to learn to ride.

But the two compromised when Richie held ransom some oats he'd found in a nearby barn, and bribed the unruly stallion with it until the animal was nice enough to let him on. The two worked briefly together, finding both herds–and Richie got it into his head he was going to claim both. Enough of this constant travel–he might as well as settle and ride out the chaos until he could find a train back to the East.

At least...these were his plans now. He was just sick of traveling.

They'd left the higher-elevated areas, heading down where snow barely touched, going along with the stallion's intuition. They hadn't spoke–it felt, to Richie, that Hotstreak had shut himself off to the rest of the world. He knew the redhead had taken the Indians' deaths hard–but he wasn't aware of the man's past, his experience with the underworld invaders. He didn't know the severity of Hotstreak's blame for himself–just knew that he'd lost some friends in the attack.

He felt sad, yes–but he couldn't just...sit there. They had to survive–and once he found the resources, he began teaching himself and learning through trial and error on what to do. He learned how to use the tools he found throughout the ranch, and learned how to repair. It came easy with him, but he hadn't any idea what to do with animals.

He knew they provided meat–but he didn't know _how_. He'd seen the Indians skin and gut a buffalo to strip off the meat–but that was the extent of his lesson. He was sure he could apply the same techniques to other animals–figuring he learned to catch one, first.

And he knew wool was useful–he just wasn't sure how to get it off them. How to spin, gather–that eluded him. Search of the ranch house yielded him no clues–he'd just learn it, himself. Someone had to learn _somewhere_...

But the sheep were so...elusive...

Giving up for today, he turned and started walking back to the ranch, ignoring the startled and protesting squeals of sheep as Charger continued to terrorize them. Richie tossed the stallion a cautious look, shaking his head slightly–that horse baffled him. He wasn't sure what to think of the animal.

As he headed back, he eyed the ranch house with some thought–wondering when the redhead was going to start showing himself. He knew that the man locked himself into a room on the second floor, and Richie felt miserable for him. Miserable and concerned–there was some food in the kitchen and cellar, and whatever he made for himself, he made for Hotstreak, too. He often left the plates on the floor outside the door, and he heard him leaving the house to attend to bathroom duties, but...since they'd arrived, Richie hadn't seen him nor spoke with him.

So he fended for himself, entirely grateful that he knew more than he had before the Indians, and that he was given these supplies to work with.

He stared up at the sky, noting the constant overcast of storm clouds–it felt he hadn't seen a sunny day since Alva's Town. He was really starting to miss the sun...

Charger nearly ran him over as the stallion charged up the road, feeling frisky and free without the saddle and reins–Richie had learned to ride him bareback, as it was very impossible to saddle the horse up, anyway. He was quite proud of that, actually.

He picked himself up from the road, tossing a couple of rocks after the stallion–then racing for safety atop of the fence that enclosed the house once the horse charged him again, hooves pounding the moist soil. The maniac horse then sped off, sheep running in panic from the stallion. Richie jumped down from the fence, grumbling to himself, then veering away from the house to check on the correl he'd repaired.

He'd seen Junior's men repair the one in Runner's Valley, and had followed their example with straightening the gates, with repairing the posts–pulling the wire to reform a more sturdy enclosing. Everything was already in place–he just needed to tidy up some factors before pulling the animals in. His muscles ached and sang with pain everyday after that, but it was well-worth it to see a completed project. He'd gotten blisters and calluses on his hands–had groaned and complained to himself over muscles he'd never used before as they became sore and demanding over the work he'd done. But in the end...it was all worth it.

Sighing heavily, he looked over his work–feeling a swell of pride puff his chest and a satisfied smile to cross his face. Everything wasn't too bad for a kid that knew nothing of such matters; with no experience. His parents would be so proud...

Thinking of them immediately made him deflate; he missed them terribly. Sadly, he turned away from the correl and began heading back to the ranch house, worrying his bottom lip as he wondered when he'd see them, again.

The ranch house was a two story Victorian–out of place for the area, but fitting with its sturdy frame and hardwood floor. It was large with six rooms, a wraparound porch–with a swing out back, overlooking a couple of acres of farmland–and was furnished with neat, sturdy furniture and pleasing items needed for survival. The few pictures he'd found were of an elderly couple–there wasn't any sign of their deaths, or anyone else's.

Outside, there was a small barn that looked to have housed at least two horses, a small shack that held minimal resources–looking to have sheltered at least two men–and a wonderful tornado shelter located just behind the shack. The tornado shelter was stocked much more fantastically than the house with non-perishable food, clothing, cots, blankets, ammo and more weapons–there was even reading material in there, most of modern-day economics, general First-Aid and Care, farming and a price book on animals.

There was a small correl just outside the barn, and a sheep pen that was small, but fit the herd that was running about. He'd found evidence of chickens, but it looked as if wolves had gotten to them. There were five saddles propped in the loft in the barn, but he hadn't seen any horses or mules about. There was a doghouse outside the house, but there wasn't a sign of the dog.

Even so, the property was comfortable and fitting. The only thing he didn't like was the solace that surrounded the place–he wasn't sure how far the nearest neighbor was, or the next town. He wasn't sure if these people were killed, or had just left–were they coming back? Still, he liked the place and had grown immediately attached to it.

He liked putting in the work that was needed to make things run–once he figured it out, it was easy to abide to. But his body was untrained and he had to make himself work, even when it hurt. He didn't want to be a struggling weakling all his life. He had to be a man, somehow. It was very important to him to feel useful, and to _know_ that he was useful–to know that he could _do_ things. He didn't want to be known and used for only as an object.

This is what pushed him, sometimes.

He had just hurried up the stairs onto the wraparound porch when he heard the sound of hollow jangling from around the house. It sounded familiar, and sensation made him shiver, for hairs to stand on end. He stilled, listening to the noises around him–hearing only the cold wind that swept through the dead corn field, the sounds of frightened sheep. The jangle sounded again–a small sound that would have been missed had he continued on with his thoughts, but once aware it, he wasn't likely to forget it.

He stared at the end of the porch, which would take him to the front of the house–that was where the sound was coming from. Something in his stomach and chest told him to be afraid–that he wasn't alone. He knew that he wasn't alone–Hotstreak was in the house, but...someone was here with him, right now. Only he didn't know what, or whom.

And still, his hair persisted to stand on end, and his fingers curled anxiously for the safety of a gun. _Any_ gun.

He started to reflect how odd it was that he was depending on a weapon he'd never used before in his life, but that day with Junior had taught him the confidence he needed to use one. That was another thing he was thankful for about that wretched man–he still felt bad, though, for leaving him to die.

The jangle sounded once, then was gone–it felt as if a heavy weight had lifted, and nature began moving again. Charger's scream of victory echoed throughout the area, and Richie felt himself moving again. He hurried into the house, carefully locking it behind him. Hearing nothing but silence within the comfortable two-story, he lit a couple of candles, then checked the wood-burning stove. It was still burning neatly, and he realized he was running low on wood. Immediately, he sighed, working his shoulders with some exhaustion–then felt himself, wondering if all this work was turning his body around, giving him more substance.

Like...like Hotstreak's...

He shivered immediately, giving an embarrassed smile as he felt his cheeks warm. He left the house once more, hurrying over to the wood pile that he'd stocked inside the small barn–all stocked within an empty horse stall, with a sharp ax, wedge and mallet to use to break up the dry pieces of wood. He felt strong and able as he chopped up some wood, loading up the wheel barrow and dumping in some kindling pieces–reveling in newfound strength and the persistent soreness in his shoulders and back that assured him he was transforming from a boy to a man. He carted that toward the house, watching Charger warily as the stallion huffed and puffed his way up the road, eyeing him just as warily.

The horse decided not to play, prancing off.

That night, Richie was snoring loudly at the dinner table, fork still in hand–the day's activities had just caught up to him, and he'd laid his head down to rest 'for a minute'. He had no way of knowing that, across from him, Hotstreak stared at him in silence, lost in his own thoughts and his own enrapture of the blond. Nothing ceased to amaze him of this boy–! As depressed and low as he felt, Hotstreak just couldn't shut himself off from Richie. He could avoid him, could avoid talking and letting the kid know he was functioning–but the one thing he couldn't do was go a day without seeing him.

He'd watched him struggle with the repairs, with Charger, with the exploration of the property–keeping a careful distance away so that Richie wouldn't know he was being watched. And he simply marveled at it all, amazed at how determined he was to carry on. It helped Hotstreak with his own pain–lifting some of that blame, guilt and sickened misery in that all that he ever come close to was taken from him because of his foolish and childish mistake those years back.

There were many times when he wanted to leave his isolation to help Richie out, but he kept himself back–because he was afraid.

Afraid that if he grew close to him, Richie would just be taken away from him, like everything else.

He didn't want that–just the very thought _hurt_.

So...Hotstreak had resolved to keep himself distant.

But he couldn't _leave_ him–and that just complicated things. He wanted–yet was scared to lose. He wanted to keep himself detached–but it was impossible. It was simply _impossible_.

Candlelight from a candle nearby made the gold strands of the blond's hair stand out–Hotstreak was staring at the feathered mass, wanting to reach out and touch it; he wanted to touch him so badly that his hands itched with the need. But he kept them curled and leaned his head into one, setting the other folded in front of him–as long as he could look...neither of them would be hurt.

A loud thud had the pair of them jumping in startled fright–the plate was sent upturned, Richie blinking in disoriented fluster, Hotstreak reaching for guns that weren't there; both shot surprised looks at each other, each startled at the other's closeness when another thud on the back kitchen door had them looking in unison in that direction.

Glass tinkered, then a loud scratching sound commenced–slowly, dragging down the length of the window, making both wince; frightening as it was, it told them they weren't alone. Though they couldn't see past the glass, they knew someone was standing out there–watching them. The scratching stopped abruptly, and the candle flickered briefly, Richie looking at it with fretful dread, remembering the kitchen scene with Angel. The scarred flesh on his forearms began to itch, and his hair began to stand on end.

He rose from the table looking for a weapon, and then looking at Hotstreak with measuring regard–the other unaware of this as he started to feel that creepy crawling sensation up his spine. Silence reigned suddenly–both were breathing much too quietly for the other to hear. There came the obvious sounds of heavy footfalls on the wraparound porch–heavy weight distributed suddenly and quickly as more footfalls headed in the opposite direction–as if they were being surrounded.

The air grew thick with tension–eyes hardly daring to blink.

The candle flickered again; Hotstreak looked at it with a frown, looking around himself, itching to have his guns–his eyes flicked around the kitchen and dining room, figuring that either spectres were the culprit of this strange occurrence, or it was something entirely new. He looked at the kid, who was regarding him with heavy suspicion, something that made him scowl; immediately defensive over whatever wrong he may have committed since...whenever.

A heavy thud against the front door made them both whirl, startled–footfalls moved quickly back to the kitchen door, the doorknob tried furiously as pounding commenced on the front door. The loud thuds were agonizingly loud within the thick, tense silence–it made Richie suck in his breath, moving anxiously close to Hotstreak despite his fear of another Angel-occurrence. The windows began to rattle, angry squeals of something inhuman and non-animal slashing above the angry thuds at the doors. More hissing commenced, the windows rattling once more before the knob turned furiously.

The front door opened, but was caught by the lock that Richie had turned before retiring to the dinner table–an angry sort of squeal slashed through that front room, and the door slammed shut. He swallowed tightly, pressing his back against Hotstreak's, dumbly grabbing his dinner fork as a meager weapon against whatever was trying to get inside.

Hotstreak saw this, and snorted–he had a much more composed head than Richie did at the moment, used to these things. He already figured out what kept the bad things from coming in–he just now noticed the small tobacco pouches in each corner of the dining room, above the doors; there were braids of sweetgrass propped atop of decorative tables, above the windows; they were common methods of protection against bad spirits. There were a few braids that were half burnt–strangely, there were no signs of religious worship anywhere in the house; which surprised him. He knew the people were white, and every second person he'd come across was religious in that sense.

Still, knowing that the bad things couldn't enter the house because of these precautions had him relaxing.

He looked at Richie, who was so tense and wound that any wrong move would have the tines of his dinner fork stuck in some limb. Moving cautiously, deliberately, he eased back into his seat, and eyed his plate.

"What's that?" he asked, his voice extremely loud within the tense silence. Something inhuman snarled viciously on the back porch, hearing it. The door rattled within its frames as the lock caught, spaces of the night outside visible.

Richie looked at him as if he were insane, and looked ready to stab him with the fork just to save himself. Hotstreak figured he was done being moody–even as it edged at his mind, his very soul. But this welcome distraction kept him from retreating to that darkness that felt suffocating to him. "Sit. They ain't comin' in."

Richie just kept staring at him, judging his sanity. Hotstreak picked at the piece of burnt toast, covered with...something he couldn't identify. "You made this shit? What's this? Looks like a horse paddy over..._sumthin_'."

Richie couldn't find words to speak as another window rattled. Red eyes passed briefly past the glass, making his entire being shudder with fright. They were impressioned into his brain–he found himself trembling even as he looked at Hotstreak with incredulous disbelief at his casual attitude at a time like this.

Hotstreak tossed the odd meal back down onto his plate, scratching his ear. He looked up, studying the blond that looked at him and tried to keep his eyes on the window at the same time. He gestured at the seat Richie had abandoned. "Si'down. They ain't comin' in. They cain't."

Richie once again cast him an incredulous expression, holding his fork in a threatening way that had Hotstreak wary of him. He narrowed his eyes, frowning. He could move faster than Richie could...but...a desperate man was a desperate man. And they tended to do silly things. That fork looked pretty menacing.

He sighed, working the kinks out in his neck. One of the glass windows cracked under the forceful slam of fist upon pane–the kid jumped, whirling in that direction, and Hotstreak took that chance to stand, yank the fork out of his hand, and sit. He set the silverware out of reach as Richie began to back away from him–searching out another weapon.

Hotstreak figured that he'd let him do that–he pulled his plate close to him, and began eating the familiar pieces of venison soaked in some sort of cream sauce. He voiced his approval as he found it sweet, with sour undertones. "This is good...where'd you find it?"

Richie was under attack by his fear, and his intense paranoia that Hotstreak was one of those things–his utter disregard for the things outside the house, and for the fact that he was totally at ease with the situation, totally different from what Richie had seen two weeks ago, was something that convinced him the man was off his rocker. He was trapped inside the house with an insane man–and things outside that wanted to eat him.

His legs were feeling weak–shakily, he grabbed a pitcher off a decorative table near a window, and held that with hands that didn't want to cooperate. Off-balance, he leaned against the wall, and slid to the floor to stare with terse regard at the man that ate the rest of his dinner.

Hotstreak finished off his food, then frowned at the back door as heavy thuds suggested frustrated kicking. Something shrieked, making his blood curdle briefly–the roof creaked with heavy weight, and the heavy fall of footsteps on the shingles let them know someone was walking up there. Those windows began to rattle angrily–an angry shriek rang out throughout the darkness.

Richie began to tremble even more violently, and Hotstreak felt sorry for him. He pushed the plate away. Pointing at the braids of sweetgrass on the table the pitcher had been sitting on, he said quietly, "That there stuff keeps 'em out. They can't come in."

He pointed at the tobacco pouches within the corners of the rooms. "Them, too. That stuff, along with certain kinda sage keeps them bad ghosties away. That's all that's out there, kid. Otherwise, if'n it were somethin' else, they'd be already in."

Richie wasn't sure whether or not to believe him–but he had nothing more to cling to for the moment. He considered the stained red leather pouches that hung in the corners of the room. The braids of sweetgrass he'd thought was just decoration. He looked at Hotstreak again as the man moved, sweeping up the plate and silverware–heading to the wooden bucket to wash them. He re-lit a couple more candles, lighting up the room.

Hotstreak finished the menial task, and looked over at Richie again. The roof creaked, another snarl ripping through the various thuds and frustrated shakes of glass. Seeing that nothing was going to convince the kid that things were okay, he sighed. He poured himself some water from the water bucket, and took a long drink–wincing at the taste of dirt. He hoped he hadn't drank from the previous dish water, and gave Richie a sour look.

Richie didn't know what to say, but something croaked out. "I used that to wash out the icebox."

Hotstreak tried not to throw up, thinking of the many things that may have been stored in there previously. He swallowed down bile, then crossed the kitchen, frowning at a particularly loud thud on the back porch–dishes rattled in their wooden perches on the wall, a teacup smashing into the counter.

But he was confident that none could come in–not with those small forms of protection stationed so abundantly throughout the house. _These people were smart for old codgers_, he thought. He briefly wondered where they went.

He looked over at Richie again and was bewildered with how much he wanted to sweep him off the floor, to kiss away his frights and worries and distract him from the boogeymen outside. He was frightened with that, because he thought he just might try it. But he knew how sensitive Richie was to any type of contact–it wouldn't be right.

Still...the appeal was nice.

To distract himself from following through with anything stupid, he started talking–relating his tales of meeting spectres, of battling Ghouls and Hounds, of making mistakes throughout the Panhandle until he found the Hawkins'. He didn't go into detail over his own past–over how this entire mess started.

Eventually, Richie started to relax, growing more and more confident that the creatures outside couldn't come in. Eventually, he started to relax his grip on the pitcher, listening to Hotstreak's stories.

Eventually, the creatures gave up. Silence reigned behind the monotone of Hotstreak's voice, until he tired himself talking so much about his past.

Yawning, he stretched his arms above his head.

"They're gone," he announced, looking at the windows. The first candle had finally died, disappearing into a puddle of wax. The other two were a quarter lower than they were when he'd lit them–how he loved fire–suggesting that an hour had passed since he started talking. He wasn't sure–he was never good at telling lengths of time with the loss of height in candles. Virgil was better at that than he was.

Thinking about the man made him miss him badly–just as badly as he missed his Indian friends, Robert, the other Hawkins' ranch hands. Looking at Richie, he suddenly wondered what his oldest kid looked like. If they were even alive.

He shifted in his seat. "Kinda...sorry I didn't help out these past weeks. I...just...this is...kinda hard. Losin' people I know always fucks me up."

Richie stared at him in silence, then thought about it. He had to agree.

"I miss my parents," he said quietly. Then scrunched up his brow. "And Junior."

Hotstreak shot him a bewildered look. "_Why_?" he blurted. "Ain't that the one that's always beatin' you up?"

"Well...yes, but...he...taught me a lot of things. I wouldn't have gotten this far without him," Richie said defensively.

Hotstreak stared at him in disbelief. He was using his hands to emphasize his words as he then said, "He bought you like you were some fuckin' animal, sold ya, used ya, boxed you around–an' you _think_ that way of him? I'd want to fuckin' wish he suffered to his very last end!"

"Well, of course–! Of course I don't completely feel that–! But–there, if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't know how to shoot. He _taught_ me. And–and even if he wasn't doing a very good job, he did his best to make sure I was safe. He had some good in him that made him redeemable."

Hotstreak shook his head in disgust. Richie frowned at him. In incredulity, Hotstreak ran a hand through his tangle of hair, wincing at the greasy, tangled feeling. Automatically thinking of Virgil's hair when he'd decided to go for the dread look.

"So, if'n the bastard _did_ live...wouldja go back to him?"

Richie thought about it. "Well...I...wouldn't go that far. He did do some pretty nasty things. But...I'm firmly convinced that if he hadn't...I wouldn't be here. He went through a lot to...keep me alive."

Hotstreak continued to stare at him with disbelieving disgust. He played with the sleeve of his worn shirt–realizing it needed serious mending. Or that he needed a new one.

He thought of the younger Alva, and felt his face twist with contempt. For one to feel that way about some turd that–

"Yer in _love_ wit' him, ain't you?" he blurted angrily, feeling rejected.

Richie shot him a look that was filled with aghast denial. "_NO_!"

"Liar. Only fools in love forgive an' overlook that sorta bullshit." The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. And the more Hotstreak felt jealous–insanely jealous. "Fuckin' bullshit, man."

"NO!"

"Then what is it, huh?"

"It's–! You won't understand! You're not understanding–!"

"I unnerstand ya'll in love! Don't know why!"

"I'm NOT!"

"HAH! If you feel so much for th' creep, what you feel for people that do you right? _Huh_?"

"I–! There has been a severe lack of such nice intentions in this frontier," Richie said in disgust, looking away. "Everyone that I have met thus far have been manipulative–always doing something for _something_. Never out of the kindness of their hearts."

Hotstreak rolled his eyes, thinking automatically of the Hawkins. They were as close to angels as he was going to get. They were so friendly, so kind–taking in anyone, even if that person thought he was incapable of good.

"Then you don't know very many people," he muttered, picking at his beard. He winced. It was so thick and unruly.

"I've seen enough. Enough to know that men love doing things in groups. That if they experience something new, they pass it on to other people. Other men. No one has been kind in a gracious sense, always having some hidden agenda or some manipulative–!"

"Sheesh, how old are ya, kid? You talk like yer fifty. All them old people spit shit like that all the time."

Richie sighed, absolutely tired of the argument. But he had to admit–it had taken his mind off of the creatures outside. He was bodily exhausted–he could feel the heaviness of his eyelids. He wanted to _sleep_.

Hotstreak was still sore in that Richie had more feelings for Edwin Alva, Jr., than he was willing to admit. It seriously bugged him. Angrily, he rose from the chair, stomping out of the kitchen, heading upstairs.

Richie didn't know what to think of that conversation. So he sat in silence in the kitchen, staring at the shadows that the candles cast on the floor, and wondered about his feelings towards Junior.


	20. I Wish I Was StrongerSomehow

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

A/N: K…starts getting **weird** and **disturbing**. Prepare yourselves. It doesn't lessen.

**Chapter Nineteen:  
>I Wish I Was Stronger...Somehow<strong>

Hotstreak knew where they were–he had visited this territory before he'd met the Hawkins'. It was the furthest he'd ever been north, and he really didn't like the area. He'd rather the rugged mountains of Colorado, the flat grasslands of Oklahoma–but he'd be fine with this area. Standing outside, he was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, watching Richie try to catch at least one of the slippery sheep that continued to elude him. Charger made it more difficult by chasing both boy and animal, absolutely loving every minute of the game.

He had to wrinkle his nose, staring at the wooly animals with distaste. _Sheep_. What self-respecting cowboy lowered himself to bother with _sheep_? Frankly, he'd stick with cattle, because he knew nothing of sheep, and he'd rather not bother. But watching Richie frustrate himself with the animals was plenty amusing for him.

He chuckled as he heard the string of curses and rants coming from the blond, just entertained at the way his voice cracked, with his obvious determination. He studied the area–it was nice, he wouldn't lie, but he was very suspicious with how close they still were to the Indians, and for that unnatural activity last night. He was on edge, expecting retaliation from angry Lakota, and another attack of underworld invaders. He was convinced that it was he they were looking after–and he scanned the horizon, looking for zombies, for any sign of other unnaturals. He wondered if Kangorr and the others had found Caine, yet, and wondered whatever happened to Virgil and the others. He reflected fondly on some of the memories he had with the Hawkins' family before he realized he was watching Richie walk sullenly back to the house.

Amused at the tired exhaustion on the kid's face, Hotstreak finished his cigarette, smacking his lips. "Did you catch one?" he asked innocently, knowing that he hadn't.

Richie shot him a venomous look, then quickly shifted that into frustrated denial. Hotstreak found himself amazed at how much he wanted to reach out, to kiss that sullen pout away. It made him uncomfortable with how much expression he physically wanted to express.

"No...I don't suppose you–"

"Ain't no way I'm fuckin' with those damn things," Hotstreak said quickly, straightening away from the post. "Don't even ask."

Richie studied him for a few moments, looking ready to argue–then decided to drop the issue. He shrugged, rubbing his left thigh, then climbed the steps to walk into the house. Hotstreak tossed an annoyed look as a sheep's high pitched squeal rang out through the peaceful clearing, Charger giving a victorious whinny as he sped off.

He followed Richie, spying him sitting at the dining room table, various sheets of paper spread around him, inking a pen. He'd seen the various pages full of detailed drawings of the animals they'd fought–and some he'd never even seen before. While he was impressed with the fact that Richie could memorize details the way he had, he wasn't sure what it was all for. His limited knowledge of reading had kept him from reading the small notes that filled page after page.

Boots scuffing hardwood floor, he ambled over, Richie giving him a cautious glance as he settled the pen over page. Hotstreak stared down at a Hound drawing, furrowing his brow over the words that pointed at various areas of the body. He looked at him, Richie looking away quickly to prevent being caught staring at him.

"What's this?" he asked gruffly, taking the page. "What'cha doin' this for?"

Looking as if he weren't going to answer, Richie fiddled with the pen. Then nervously shifted in his chair, clearing his throat. "I'm just...recording all that I'd seen of these creatures."

"...Why?"

"Um, well–I'd rather know what I'm dealing with, and since they aren't–aren't exactly leaving us–alone, I just...thought I'd record what I already know of them, and what references I may use for the future in evading them, or killing them. I'm just detailing–"

Hotstreak sighed. "Shorter version, please..."

"Um...just curious. Figured I'd...just...detail what I saw."

"Well–"

"You said you've fought them for a long time," Richie interrupted, apologizing quickly before going on, "how are they killed? These...these things?"

"Hounds?"

"Hounds...why are they called that?"

"Dunno. Cuz–well, you seen 'em up close, right?"

"Yes."

"They can't see ya. Really, what they're doin' is sniffin'. They sniff ya out."

Richie was confused, recalling that they'd attacked based on movement. Seeing this, Hotstreak gave a frustrated sigh, as if explaining was very strenuous for him. He pointed at a detailed page of a Hound's head, trying not to marvel at the precise rendering of the creature. Apparently, the boy was an artist to go along with those smarts of his.

"They ain't got no eyes. It's just...like, y'know them lizards that blend in with their, like, surroundings? Like into dirt an' wood? It all distractions. They can 'sniff' out movement. Kinda funky."

"I...I don't understand. How can they when their noses are so small–?"

"I ain't no fuckin' doctor, I _dunno_! They just do!" Hotstreak said stubbornly. "But they ain't got no eyes. An' you kin see their nose workin' when they're lookin' for you."

"If they don't have any eyes, how can they be looking for you?"

Hotstreak sighed, tossing the sheet aside. "Stop askin' me things. I just know what I know."

Richie was frustrated by this, glaring at the sheet of paper–but he wrote what Hotstreak told him just in case. If only he could see why and how the creature worked–! Could it be that their anatomy and functions of directional knowledge resemble those of bats, and worked by some sort of sonar reflection? He had the sudden need to have a creature at hand, to study it.

"They are impervious to bullets, to zombie attacks, to other methods of–and your coat! It's their fur, but how–? How are those...Mad Men? How are they able to take their fur–?"

"When me an' Blayne were workin', we'd take their hides off. Like, smoke choked them–all that heat they breathed in killed them from the inside."

"Well, carbon dioxide is produced from smoke, and it's a very poisonous and dangerous gas that will rob oxygen from the lungs–"

Hotstreak waved that away impatiently, having no idea what 'carbon dioxide' was. "An' when they died, we'd just peel their skin away before they cooled."

Richie was confused at that, too–weren't Hounds impervious to heat? If so, it must have taken a great deal of heat to loosen the demon's skin from its body. Then he wondered who Blayne was. Frustrated, he set those pages aside, and drew out one of a Ghoul.

"Ah. Bad dudes that deserved ta die," Hotstreak said, proud that he knew. "They just them bad spirits. Sorta like...they were, like, brought back to do shit. They torture people before killin' them–kinda like–you ran into one, right?"

"A shadow man. He just chased me and shot me."

"More'n likely, tryin' to make it easier for them Hounds to get ya. They're a bit slow."

Richie added more notes to the page. "How are they killed?"

"Fuckin'–not normal ammo. Blayne figured on usin' Mad Men's ammo. Must be specialer than the ones we use."

"Who is Blayne? He sounds very intelligent..."

Hotstreak was annoyed, but he muttered, "Just a friend. We grew up this thing together, practically."

"Mad Men's ammo..." Richie was getting more and more frustrated in that he had to see this ammunition himself. He made a note on that, and moved on. "And they–they are bad souls, too?"

"Dunno. They ain't nothin' we recognize. Just bones with clothes. Sorta like you."

Insulted, Richie tossed him an annoyed glance, but looked down at his arms.

Grinning, Hotstreak had noticed the weight and muscle gain, but felt all warm and tingly upon wondering how the kid's body would feel under his hands. Just thinking about it while looking at him made his pants tight. He quickly sat at the other end of the table to hide the evidence.

"They die when shot in the head. Seems their only weakness," Hotstreak added with a shrug, picking at his nails. He began chewing on them to trim them.

Richie tried not to be disgusted, wondering when Hotstreak last washed his hands. He set that paper aside. But he couldn't help but notice that Hotstreak's eyes were a pleasant shade of emerald–darkening whenever riled, light whenever they caught the sun. He'd never seen green eyes that shade, before, and they captivated him whenever he looked into them. He was also guilty to admit that green was his favorite color. He cleared his throat.

"Spectres?"

"I told you about them."

Richie didn't remember, frustrated at not retaining this information. But he decided not to press because he wasn't that comfortable with Hotstreak to prod, too fearful of physical repercussion.

Hotstreak looked at him, sneaking a glance his way as he chewed. Richie had such nice hands–long, skinny fingers, soft palms, knuckles awkward and bony; he felt his eyes glaze over as he delved into a brief fantasy, trying to imagine a handjob given by this kid.

Richie produced a picture of the Third. Hotstreak felt that fantasy slip away, staring in disgust at the detailed rendering.

"I've never seen those things, before," he admitted. "Sure they been around, though. Them purdy little bracelets they got goin' on are things I remember hearin' a lot back then."

"They are gruesome creatures," Richie agreed, studying the drawing. "Very fast. Dark. Almost humanoid. I wonder if they are direct soldiers of this man you keep talking about...? Caine?"

"Caine...you ain't ever seen 'im, huh?"

"No."

"We'd never seen this 'him', before, either."

Richie frowned, remembering hearing snatches of conversation that concerned the two. He thought of that night when Junior was possessed–delivering a message to Shiv and Ebon. Clearing his throat again, he said, "That night in Runner's Valley, something made Junior talk to those men. That Asian and that black man? He mentioned a 'little lady'."

Hotstreak scrunched his face up with thought, trying to remember a lady in all his travels with Blayne.

"Dunno of some 'lady'," he muttered, a touch angrily.

Richie caught the angry tone, looking at him sharply to judge his mood. Figuring it was because of him, he gathered all his papers and set them aside. He rose from the table, excusing himself.

Later that day, Hotstreak was scraping off the last of his facial air with the edge of his knife, wincing at the feeling of newly bared skin. He ran a hand over his newly cleared face, then began working on his mustache, trimming it to a better maintained piece. He was marveling over his work when Richie knocked at his door, staring at him with a sort of studious expression once he caught sight of Hotstreak cleaning up.

"_What_?" he muttered, concentrating on trimming away curls of auburn that tickled his lip.

For a few moments, Richie didn't answer–all cleaned up, Hotstreak was rather pleasant to look at. That beard had been so nasty and distracting, and–the man had his shirt off. His eyes were straying over the displayed muscle, the smooth skin. He promptly forgot what he was about to say, taking in broad shoulders and thick arms, running his eyes over the tapered wings of his sides. He grew mortified once he realized that intense feelings of arousal began warming his body. He quickly turned and walked back out, Hotstreak looking back at him with some confusion.

Retreating to his room, Richie slammed the door, awkwardly walking over to the bed. He was feeling shamed for feeling this way–over a man, nonetheless!–and he'd thought he'd never feel this way; especially after everything that had happened to him.

With traitorous intent, his hormones worked on reminding him of that first night he'd seen Hotstreak's body, and his face flushed. He'd tasted his skin, he'd had sex with the man–and it told him that it would have felt good if he'd allowed himself to enjoy it.

Having been awakened to sex and its accompanying designs had been a cruel and hateful experience; but now...now it felt as if it were okay for him to know what it felt like. To wonder if he'd enjoy it–he'd tried to make himself think of doing it with women, but since his experience had been with men...he felt that he didn't get aroused this same way as he would thinking of women.

Feeling incredibly ashamed and dirty, he clenched his hair with both hands, trying to will away those vivid images and feelings of heat that tickled the bottom of his stomach.

Hotstreak walked into his room without warning, wiping at his face with a towel, scowling. Richie was surprised by his entrance, jumping as he looked over–treated to another up close sight of his exposed chest and stomach; his mouth promptly salivated, noticeably taking in the taper of his waist, the flat brown nipples, the sparse spread of light hair...

"What'd you want?" Hotstreak asked impatiently, tugging at his hair. He was going to take a bath later–may as well. He'd kept clean with trips to any available stream or river. He then took in the flushed features of the blond, and immediately attuned himself to the sudden tension that he could feel. It astounded him with a forceful blow as he realized that Richie was checking him out–those eyes of his darting across his bared torso with noticeable appreciation.

He would have whooped and dove in for the attack hadn't the blond rose quickly, darting into the separate wash room with a loud, "_Nothing_!" before slamming the door shut.

Standing there with a dawning grin on his face, Hotstreak stared at the shut door, then looked down at himself. With a mixture of arrogance and pleased pride, he flexed his muscles, making sure that he wasn't going flabby, or that things hadn't changed the last time he'd seen himself bare. Feeling much better than before, he strolled out the room with a spring in his step.

**010101010110**

Adam was surprised when, while exploring Luna on his own, he came upon Junior. He'd already learned that the town was being ran by Alva, and while the three were surprised, they weren't for very long. It was obvious Alva was in control of the situation, and had already garnered the loyalty and dependence upon the survivors that had flocked to the small town based on word that the man could provide safety with his growing army. Adam and the others had figured Junior would be happier, here–that he'd return to his controlling, abusive ways, but Adam was startled to see that the man was packing his horse with enough supplies to last him a long while.

"Hey," he said upon approaching, Junior glancing up with him with a sullen expression. "You off again?"

Junior tightened the straps around his bedroll, glancing away at Casey, who was standing nearby. The older cowboy was trying to change Junior's mind about leaving, but he wasn't having very much success with it. Casey studied Adam for a few moments, looked at Junior, then quietly left without another word. Junior figured he was off to tell Alva about it–which he didn't mind at all. He looked at Adam.

"Yeah. I ain't stayin' here."

Adam's face was so startled, that Junior scowled at him.

"You ain't? _Why_?" Adam blurted. "I mean, yer daddy runs this show. What'cha mean, you ain't stayin'?"

"I ain't doin' what he says, no mo'," Junior practically spit. "Just a worthless old man. Cares nothin' 'cept for what he can do for himself."

Adam's eyebrows raised at the level of resentment and hurt in that tone.

"'Sides...I thought long and hard 'bout what I been doin' ta people. An'...an' I ain't about to go back to that, anymore. Gotta...gotta just...get away from it. Figure I could move on. Don't know where to go, but..."

Adam gave a slight smile, watching the horse's ears settle flat along its skull, then flick upward again as Junior untied the reins from the post. He was thankful to hear that, though.

"That's good, man," he said truthfully. "I mean...thinkin' an' realizin' what you been doin' wrong. But where you plan on goin'? Heard there ain't nothin' around these parts, anymore. Them armies already done come through."

"I...I honestly don't know," Junior confessed, looking sheepish. "Just far enough away from my father as I can git, I guess. Fuckin' ole man–he's just a selfish piece o'shit."

"Well...good luck, man. I...I hope ya'll find some peace somewhere. Guess there ain't no harm done in wantin' ta get away from it all. It all good."

Junior shot him an uncertain look, unsure of what to say to that.

Adam just watched as Junior led the horse away from the post. He watched people clear him a path, and then the man was mounted and riding toward the west, heading off to wherever. Glancing around himself, noting that many of the armed men were taking note of Junior's leave, Adam turned to find Virgil, to report what he'd found.

**010101010110**

He was staring at the kid, again. Listening to his soft breathing, watching him sleep. He had been wakened from his own sleep, his body strumming with sexual need. It was buzzing with it, now, making his body tight, making all parts of him heated. He was battling himself as he watched Richie sleep–kept debating over force and consent, struggling with it throughout every pro and con. If he waited for Richie's eventual give-in to temptation, he didn't know how long that would take. Who knows what would happen tomorrow? What if he didn't ever have that chance, again? What if Richie never consented?

The darkness was thick, but he'd adjusted to it. The candle burning from his open room gave him enough light to see the sweet curve of the kid's lips, the fluttering of long lashes. That urge to touch him, to run his hands over all available surface of his body made Hotstreak feel frustrated and needy. It made him feel helpless and angry. His stomach was tight with all these conflicts. He felt that he wasn't a rapist. He didn't have to take anybody by force. He hadn't, before. Not until...not until Richie came along, and he found himself totally helpless to his conflicting feelings. Knowing that he was obsessed with him, finding him utterly beautiful and captivating–but also knowing that Richie would be out of his reach.

Utterly wary and cautious, scared of anybody that showed any sort of desire to him. And Hotstreak wasn't sure what he wanted more–his consent, or his defeat. His own impatience burned at him, as well as hopeless conflict.

His body continued to strum with need–he'd never felt so much _need_, before. Never for Maria–never for any other person. Just _him_.

He could get away with anything–there wasn't any law, here. No one with a voice of reason; all that he knew were dead, or missing. They were the only souls out here–and would be for who knows how long. An Indian seeking revenge could kill them at any time–or Richie would be taken from him, as was everyone else he'd ever cared about.

Choices were pulling him into that direction–take or regret.

He didn't want to regret–what if the next time Richie was taken from him, he'd never see him again?

No one could stop him from getting what he wanted–eventually, the kid would start to see it that way and submit. What if he learned to love him back, knowing that he'd have no other choice, no other option?

The more Hotstreak thought of it that way, the more he began to see that it was best. He began to see that force was necessary.

No one could stop him.

He could overpower Richie easily.

There wasn't any voice of reason; and there wasn't a way Richie could leave him. He should be used to it, now.

Then again...Hotstreak wouldn't have to be abusive. He wouldn't treat him so horribly like the others–he couldn't raise a fist to him. He couldn't yell or bark at him angrily. He wouldn't starve or neglect him. He couldn't do any of that–but he couldn't take knowing that he'd never have a chance with him, again.

Maybe he could make it easier for him–make Richie want it as much as he did. He'd make it good for him–he would kiss and caress, show him that sex felt good. And if he had to force his way with that, then...then that's how it was going to be. He had to prove himself, and if that's what he had to do...

It was decided, then. He decided that was the best route. His groin was aching, dick heavy and full–he knew sinking into Richie's body would be bliss. Touching him, tasting him–his mouth grew wet with anticipation, and he shifted from his chair, venturing quietly to the bed. His hands were shaking as they touched, just barely, the quilt that had been pulled up to Richie's chest. The smell of the kid's musk and sleep scent touched his nostrils, making them flare as his stomach did somersaults.

Richie was unaware of him, deep in sleep–he didn't even shift when Hotstreak pulled the quilt away from him, climbing onto the bed to sit uncomfortably at his left side. He gazed over his form, taking in the slender frame, the lightly curled fingers at his head. He straddled his thighs, releasing himself to lean over Richie, to touch his lips with his own. Richie awoke immediately upon that contact, automatically stiffening at his presence. He immediately threw up his arms, protesting with wordless sound, and Hotstreak stopped stroking him to catch his hands, pressing his lips more firmly against his. He trapped his legs with his own as they started to kick, and both of them struggled atop of the bed in the darkness.

Not wanting to get rough, but needing to get his way, Hotstreak began to shush and whisper incoherent words meant to comfort. It only made Richie struggle hard, growing increasingly frustrated as he realized he couldn't push the man away, or stop himself from realizing the response he'd already given body-wise.

A keening sound left his mouth as Hotstreak continued his ministrations despite the softening of his member, his mustache tickling his skin as kisses moved over his jaw and neck.

He wrapped his fingers into shaggy red hair, yanking hard. Hotstreak went with the movement upon surprise, but stopped touching him to grab his hand, pining it over his head. Forcefully, he began kissing him again, biting his lip when Richie tried to turn his head away, giving sounds of frustrated despair.

"Stop, stop, _stop_," Hotstreak whispered harshly, being driven by this response. It made his stomach turn, but at the same time–just feeling Richie's body under his made him want to continue every minute. "I can make it good fo' you, too. I can make you feel just as good, too."

With that, he let go of his hand, reaching for his shirt, and both of them struggled against each other as he sought to rip that open, wanting _everything_ bared to him. At the sound of buttons popping, the bed squeaking with their movements, he felt his excitement climb as pale flesh was revealed to him.

Richie cried out angrily, fighting to get his hands free–anything to escape, feeling increasingly sickened and scared–furiously disappointed as his body responded to the actions. Unable to get his arms loose, he laid there, staring angrily into the darkness.

"You aren't supposed to be this way!" he screamed, voice cracking, furious helplessness evident. "You aren't supposed to be this way!"

Hotstreak heard that, and felt pained–but only momentarily. He'd already decided, and nothing was going to stop him. But he was determined to show Richie that he wanted him, _all_ of him–not just the act. He wanted to show him that it could be good between them–Richie should be grateful that Hotstreak wasn't just taking, not like the others had.

Hotstreak was determined to show him that sex could be good, which was why he was touching him, tasting him.

Richie quieted, giving occasional frustrated grunts as he suppressed more angry cries, just wanting to get away from this. He didn't want it–he didn't want Hotstreak to be this way. The man had been kind to him–hadn't abused him like the others. And he was doing it again–! Taking without permission–! He didn't want him to be this way! He didn't want to do this, not when he was starting to warm up to the man. Not when he hadn't completely accepted his own feelings of the man.

Hotstreak lifted his head again, and eyed him for a moment–Richie didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing his betrayed expression, shooting him a hateful one instead. He didn't want to show this man he had been starting to like him. He swallowed tightly as Hotstreak lowered his face again, touching his lips gently–his fingers tightened around his wrists. For a few minutes, the redhead kissed him, trying to coax a response from him–it was ridiculous. Trying to seek reciprocation when Richie just hated him at the moment.

A tongue swiped his mouth, but he refused to open it–he hated his body for responding to the continuous strokes of Hotstreak's hand, turning his head as he gave a frustrated growl. Tears burned at his eyelids, but he didn't want them to fall–remembering how men hated seeing that sort of thing. He shut his eyes as he felt Hotstreak's mouth on his throat again, his hair tickling his flesh–hated how his skin rippled with ticklish heat upon contact.

"Don't hate me," Hotstreak whispered against his neck, suddenly stopping his stroking–pressing his face against Richie. "I _need_ you. I can't stop thinking of you. I can't stop myself from feelin' this way."

He sounded desperate, pathetic–but Richie's hate burned hotly, his eyes staring blankly into the darkness. His hands were released, and Hotstreak's were trailing all over his bared skin, pressing with an insistent touch–as if trying to learn all of him.

"Don't talk to me," he snarled, his throat tight with all his feelings. "Don't try to be nice to me, damn you. Just take what you want–! I can't even stop you! Just take it!"

"I don't want you to hate me...I just want you to see that it can be good between us," Hotstreak continued in that harsh whisper of his, his fingers sliding over Richie's stomach, feeling it tighten. His accent had thickened considerably, making it almost hard to understand him. "I want you to be just as satisfied, like me."

"_No_–!"

"I want you to feel good, too...I want you to be good with this."

"–you're deluded! You're just like the others!" Richie cried angrily, his voice shattering the quiet once more. Fingers were replaced with mouth once more, and he felt his back arch, pressing his chest into the sensation–it was enough to make him burn with hatred for himself. He stopped that movement as soon as he felt himself doing it, pressing hard against the mattress.

Hotstreak stopped him from moving away, his hands strangely gentle as they held him down. The redhead was pressing small kisses along his jaw line, mustache tickling his skin–he turned his head to the side once he realized Hotstreak was going to kiss him again, giving a frustrated noise as the redhead pressed his own head against Richie's; his arms moved around him awkwardly, into a forceful hug that screamed of desperation and pathetic need.

"I _need_ you," Hotstreak whispered harshly against his cheek, his nose jabbing Richie's cheekbone. Richie tried to move his head, giving an angry growl at the whispered words. "I need you so bad...can't ever get you out of my head."

"Fuck you!"

"Don't hate me...it can be _good_." His fingers caught Richie's chin, holding his face in place. He placed kisses over his lips, and continued to do so even when those lips were sucked between teeth with stubborn withdrawal. "I won't be like them. Takin' without appreciation. Yer beautiful, the most beautiful boy I ever done seen my entire life. I'd never raise a hand to you. I can't be wit'out you."

Sucking in a hissing breath, dark obscenities of disbelief flying to mind, Richie stopped struggling. Not because of the promises...but because it was all so damn pointless. There was nothing he could do to stop him, and there wasn't anyone around to help him. He'd just wear himself out, anyway. And what of afterward? And what if Hotstreak grew frustrated and angry, and went against his harsh promises?

A large palm against his cheek had his face turning, and Hotstreak touched his lips with his own, gently tasting, fingertips stroking his skin with utter tenderness, as if he were something fragile and precious. He didn't return the kisses, angrily staring at his face, feeling wetness fall over his cheeks. He hated this–hated every moment. Just when he started to trust the man, started to like him–and he did _this_.

Without really thinking, he bit those lips, hard enough to for Hotstreak to draw back with a startled cry. He tasted copper on his teeth, breathing heavily as he felt the man lift away from him to cover his own mouth.

But it didn't deter him–not at all. His underwear was pulled from his body, and Richie went along with it because he felt he hadn't a choice, anyway. Might as well as get it over with. He didn't have to participate, or enjoy–just let the bastard have what he apparently wanted.

Angrily, he watched Hotstreak remove his own unbuttoned shirt, muscle flexing. He didn't have to touch this man–just let him have what he wanted. Make it go by faster. Even in the darkness, he could see the straining lust on Hotstreak's face, the way green eyes stared down at him, seemingly devouring him with look alone. He stared back at him, feeling betrayal cross his face–he couldn't hide it, anymore.

Large hands moved over his body again, and Richie was angry at its response. At the way it heated in the wake of his touch. He shifted his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, feeling both sick and frustrated as he felt Hotstreak shift over him, his lips moving down his chest, over his stomach–mustache tickling his flesh with every action. When the redhead came to his dick, Richie felt his gut twist violently, for his chest to tighten upon feeling the heated suction of his mouth on that part of him.

**010101010110**

When the big man shifted over him, gentle lips touching his own tight ones, Richie gave in because that was all he could do.

"I love you," Hotstreak whispered harshly against his cheek, his hands curling into Richie's hair, tilting his head up so that he could kiss him desperately. "I loved you since I first saw you."

_I hate you_, was all Richie thought, angrily scrunching up his face. But with deadened feelings, he started to return the kisses. Running on mechanics. _I hate you for doing this to me._

In the end, after doing everything he could think of to worship Richie's body, to make him come twice, Hotstreak couldn't even get it up to penetrate him. That left him frustrated and angry at himself, trying hard to accomplish it–he knew he wanted it. He wanted to possess Richie's body that way, and to satisfy himself. But no amount of manipulation to get his limp dick up to accomplish the task.

In frustration, he stopped trying. He was ashamed of himself–for being unable to prove himself that way, and for being unable to stop himself from thinking this way, for accepting this course of action. He could feel Richie's hate–could feel his eyes burning at him, and that wasn't what he wanted at all. Strangely, it wasn't what he'd thought of earning after all was said and done. He'd expected Richie's defeat, but not his hate. That wasn't what he wanted–not at all. It was different.

Slick with sweat, exhausted over what he'd done tonight, Hotstreak let his chafed dick go, and slumped over Richie's body, feeling how rigid and stiff he was under his touch. Breathing in deeply of the blond's sweaty skin and musk, pushing his nose into his neck, Hotstreak hugged him close.

Richie stared out at a point in the ceiling, seeing that dawn was lighting the room with its faint ray of colors. He was exhausted with his own feelings, and with those of sexual release. But he felt hateful and empty at the same time–not filled with helplessness and fright like he had at the saloon, but...just..._hateful_. Accepting of what had been done, and that people, even those he'd thought he could trust and like, were all the same inside. Evil, manipulative–wanting something beyond what they pretended.

Though he was tired, he didn't sleep. He could tell that Hotstreak wasn't sleeping, either. He was glad that impotence struck at such time–that this was a common problem. He secretly sneered at the fact–that while Hotstreak exuded testosterone, the man had problems with impotency and premature ejaculation. It was _fitting_. It served him right.

When the room was bright with morning, Charger whinnying for attention and food outside, neither had slept. Hotstreak was still holding him–he exuded a strange sort of desperation, Richie felt; and when the man lifted his head to look at him, Richie couldn't feel what he had, before.

He lowered his eyes as that intense green stare seemed to pierce into him–he didn't move when he felt gentle fingertips touch small areas at his neck, his chest.

"I left marks on you," Hotstreak whispered, as if speaking aloud would break some sort of magic spell. Richie thought he was just pathetic. He didn't bother him with an expression, lying stiffly within his arms. He could feel the man's eyes looking him over–felt himself jolt and tighten under the fingertips that traced tenderly over his ribs, down his stomach; to rim his navel and brush his inner thighs.

His jaw tightened as he felt lips kiss tenderly at his limp member. And the bed squeaked lightly as the big man shifted, his red hair spilling over Richie's throat as he laid his head over his chest. Arms shifted around him, hugging his middle; he could feel Hotstreak's eyelashes brush against his skin as he blinked with his thoughts.

"_Don't hate me._"

The whispered words made Richie jolt. They were the first in a long while. His stomach clenched with angry heat upon hearing them, again.

"You're all I have," Hotstreak whispered, almost inaudibly. "You're all I have _left_...can't you see that? You're all my light in th' dark. I just want you to love me, too."

_Liar_, Richie thought angrily. He would not feel pity or empathy for the man. Not after what he did.

"Jus' wanted ta show you what I feel. What I _felt_. Jus' wanna be that one person that treats ya nice. Can't you see that? How can I show you? How can I prove to ya that all I want is your love?"

_Never_, Richie thought, hearing teeth grind as his jaw clenched.

"Yer all that is precious to me, after all I lost," Hotstreak continued, in that same whispered desperation. "Just...jus' want yer love. That's all. All my light in my dark."

_Insane, pathetic bastard_. _You're just like the rest_...


	21. You Just Gotta Let It Go

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Twenty:  
>You Just Gotta Let It Go<strong>

It had been a couple of days–this was his third night. Junior was bundled up in some blankets, his campfire burning meagerly. His horse was standing nearby, eyes reflecting the glow of the fire, fidgeting restlessly. Junior had his hat pulled tightly over his head, his arms crossed tightly–it was freezing. Snow drifted casually, as if it had no real purpose.

He was lost in his thoughts, over his preparation for a future unknown when his horse shuffled nervously, ears flicked attentively forward. Junior heard the noises.

Standing quickly, withdrawing a Mad Man's rifle from his nearby saddle roll, he watched a lone rider approach them. Their horse was ambling with no real hurry, and he couldn't tell who the rider was. Dressed all in black, the rider took their time in strolling over. Junior relaxed slightly, lowering his gun.

He waited for the approach, noting that the horse was frothing at the mouth–the rider was packing major heat in the form of several rifles tucked behind the saddle, ammunition belts and bags, and some small supplies.

The rider touched their hat in greeting. A lowered hat brim and a bandanna hid most of their features. Dismounting, the rider gave a small chuckle–revealing their sex.

"You ain't changed _that_ much," came the sarcastic announcement, heavy accented. Junior lowered his gun completely. He wouldn't forget her, not with her antics. He was just surprised that she was here. "Heard ya'll came into town, and left again. Funny thing is, they all said you been changin'. You weren't all _mean_."

Sullenly, Junior adjusted his hat, unsure of what to say as Jessie removed her bandanna, exhaling heavily. She was untying the leather straps that held her saddle roll and weapons. Handling their weight easily as she swung them off her horse.

"None of the men could come out here," she said, dropping them on the snow covered dirt. "So Teresa sent me, instead. Kinda don't mind...keeps me from layin' on my back, for a few. So whatcha been doin', man? You seen the light?"

Junior had done a lot of thinking of his part with Alva and the others. But...he wasn't sure what to do with his past. Only that he needed to change for the future. Now confronted with a part of his past, what was he to do?

He grunted in response. "Whatchu doin' out here?"

"Like I said–Teresa sent me. Heard ya'll was ramblin' alone," Jessie said cheerfully. She looked at Junior again. "Why's your chin all crooked?"

"...'Swhat happens when you get your face beat in, I reckon. Don't look at it."

Jessie shrugged, but she was also smirking as she dropped to a crouch, poking at the fire with a stick. "Yer daddy all wonderin' why you up and left him. He thought you were gonna take up where you left off! Sho'nuff surprised him with just leavin'. Figured you were all helpless out here!"

Junior scowled at her. "Shut up about it. I just don't wanna do that sorta stuff, anymore. Learned my lesson. Don't be rubbing it all in!"

"Aw...time alone made you all snuggly?" she smirked at him, tossing the stick aside. She then looked around with a frown. "Where's the honky? Didja lose him?"

Junior didn't answer, feeling bad for the entire thing. Richie had just been as helpless as he, and...and Junior didn't even know his name. He shrugged listlessly.

"Well...good. I dunno, been bad for business. I mean, ya'know, wouldn't be makin' much if I had more competition. Teresa's bad enough as it is..."

"Yeah, you wouldn't mind, would ya ya dumb whore?"

She clapped in delight, laughing. "There's the fuckin' turd I know!"

Rolling his eyes, he gestured at the weaponry. "What's this?"

"Oh...well, kinda figured since ya'll gonna be on your own, you might as well as take these. Your daddy has a buncha men posted near Montana–since yer headed that way..."

"I ain't goin' into Montana!"

"It's just right over yonder!" Jessie pointed at the mountain that was nearby. "They all posted up to round in survivors and send them into Luna. Help out, some. I mean, ain't like ya'll's goin' anywhere else, eh?"

Junior was annoyed that even when he said he wasn't going to help out his father, his father was still trying to get him to do his bidding. But it wouldn't hurt to have more weapons...

He gave Jessie a smirk of his own. "Sure, then. May as well. Where's this place at?"

Jessie gave him directions, then gave a low yawn. "Mind if I camp out wit' ya for the night? I'm kinda tired. Been ridin' hard the last few days, lookin' for ya."

"Whatever. Plenty of space over there."

Jessie began unloading her bedroll, and made herself comfortable in the spot Junior indicated. Without saying anything more, he glared at the supplies, weaponry and ammunition he was given. He wasn't going to head into Montana–if his father wanted things done, he should do it himself. Junior wasn't going to do it. With another smirk, he planned to make use of the things.

That next morning, he packed up quietly and hastily, and left Jessie sleeping where she was. He headed off toward the west, still unsure of what he was going to do, and where he was going. Changing direction, he decided to head south into Nebraska–then see what he'd do, then.

For a few days he traveled, running into various situations and people–it felt as if he were trying to prove himself, or rectify all that he'd done wrong in all his years of wrongdoing. He found himself involved in a raid a group of bandits were conducting against a traveling band of survivors–shooting from within the group to cause chaos, to help the survivors overcome the raid.

He ran into some Indians, but was chased away due to a rumor that some whites had killed off a large camp of Lakota; he barely escaped with his life.

He hit his hometown near the borderline of the state–but it had since burned down...which was peculiar to him, because it seemed that every town he hit thus far had been burnt. There were human skeletons everywhere. Alva's Town no longer existed–that was somewhat fitting for all that had occurred, he supposed. He continued on south, then changed direction west again.

It was when he finally crossed into Wyoming that he realized the silence, the utter stillness of a country that had no one there, gave him a sense of eerie aloneness. It was as if he were catapulted into a new land–a whole new country. Animals roamed free and seemingly wild–their brands covered by winter fur. Domesticated animals greeted him cheerfully and eagerly–there wasn't a sign of human life anywhere.

It felt _wrong_, to him. It felt as if he were the only man living on the planet–it made him intensely scared.

Staring over the scenic mountains of Wyoming, the way clouds continued to cover the sky, Junior wondered what he was going to do with himself. Where he was going to go; whom he should meet. All this survival business worked wonders–he was now fit to take care of himself and possibly others if he had the chance.

Maybe...maybe if Luna was still standing...maybe he could find survivors and herd them in that direction? Maybe the more people Luna had, the better their defenses. The better their chances of surviving the invasion.

Or...or perhaps that was a stupid choice. Herding them all into one area just to be slaughtered.

Lost in thought, he took in the slow moving clouds, feeling the slap of snow–would the sun and warmth ever return?–and feeling blank. His horse shuffled quietly–the noisy cries of sheep caught his attention. Frowning, he looked down into the rocky area below, seeing a small herd of sheep grazing–their wool thick and heavy.

He studied them for a few moments, wondering how they survived a cold winter like this one–wondering if this was all there was, or if there were more. He had no idea what to do with them; what to use them for. He just knew that people used their fur as...clothing?

He stared intently at the wooly animals, trying to figure out how this was possible.

He journeyed on, debating the pros and cons of turning back–to head back into territory where he knew people were. All this aloneness, this emptiness–it was weighing down on him. Before he could reach that decision, he began to hear the impatient braw of many cattle. Curious to know how they had survived, he ventured in that direction.

He had just crested a hill when he saw the farm–it was obvious it had been abandoned, crops dead and rotted over; but there was a man feeding the many head of cattle along one side of the acreage. Junior scrunched up his face, staring at the place. There was a house to his right, smoke curling up from the chimney. Fresh firewood was stacked on the porch, and he could see movement in the windows as someone walked about inside.

A little cheered, Junior began walking his horse in that direction, eying the activity of both cattle and man. That pasture was set too far from the house for him to see everything distinctively, but he saw that a couple of bales of hay were being forked out from a buckboard that was pulled by a horse. There was too much cattle for him to count, so he didn't bother to measure the herd by valuable amount.

Once reaching the house, he dismounted his horse cautiously, looking around himself. It was quiet, the area was still–it felt like all that existed here were ghosts. It gave him the impression that all he was seeing was a lie. He kept a cautious eye out, tying his horse's reins onto one of the porch's support posts, and walked up the stairway.

He removed his hat out of polite courtesy, and knocked on the door. Nervously, he clutched the stained Stetson, wondering what he was going to run into, if he should keep himself armed–

The door opened, and Junior stared in stunned awe at the unexpected sight of Richie, who reacted with the same response upon seeing him. The pair stared at each other in stunned silence, until Richie cleared his throat, reaching out then quickly dropping his hand.

"Yer _alive_!" Junior exclaimed stupidly, then lowered his voice. "I–I thought that–!"

"I'd thought you _died_," Richie exclaimed over him, then quickly looked away, shyly retracting his surprise with another clearing of his throat. "...sir."

"I–I didn't..." Junior trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. Then, after a moment of silence, Richie's face suddenly hardened, eyebrows furrowing with a guarded frown. He visibly tensed, and Junior understood why. He gestured lightly. "I–I ain't like that, anymore. I'm not here ta be...I never knew..."

"Would you like to come in?" Richie asked after Junior trailed off once more. "There's some coffee. Some...some food..."

Junior thought that sounded wonderful. But he remained where he was, giving Richie a trite expression. Richie hesitated, looking at him with that guarded expression of his own.

"I ain't gonna...gonna be like that. I did alotta wrong, back then. Alotta things happened, an' I..."

Richie stared at him for a few moments, then looked away with a light shrug.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered, leading the way to the kitchen. Junior followed cautiously, taking a studious look around himself as he took off his gloves. He removed his hat, a little shameful of his clothes, at the smell that he grew aware of as he warmed.

He sat quietly at the small, handmade table as Richie poured him a cup of coffee. Junior took it with a grateful murmur, warming his hands around the mug as Richie then filled a small bowl of canned venison and a dry piece of dinner roll. He served Junior quietly, then sat across from him, looking out the window for Hotstreak.

He wondered what the redhead would do or think if he came back to find Junior alive and sitting there with him–he was a little nervous about his reaction, remembering that day that Hotstreak accused im of loving Junior. He briefly wondered what the redhead would do to Junior.

The younger Alva sipped at the contents within the mug. He looked over the rim at Richie, noting the difference of his features. This boy was still quite sickly–a greyish pallor shadowed features that were maturing, his frame seemingly fragile and stringy due to poor health. His eyes were ringed with a tannish gray color, signaling a severe lack of sleep–hollow, almost as if there was nothing working that stature of his. He walked with a limp, Junior had noticed, and his movements seemed sluggish.

But still, Richie retained pretty, but boyish features that kept him from being girlish.

Junior lowered the cup, the popping of wood and the far away sounds of cattle the only noise between them. "It's good ta know yer...still alive," he said awkwardly, stumbling over his words.

"Same here, sir."

He shook his head, setting the cup down. "Don't call me that, man. There ain't no need. I...I am... _shamed_. I don't even...don't even know yer name..."

Richie snorted, fingertips plucking at the edge of the table. He shot Junior a sneering look, but Junior's face was reddened with his own embarrassment, his eyes clearly showing shame as he eyed a spot on the table rather than the young blond.

"It's Richard Foley. But...but he calls me Richie," he said quietly.

Junior looked up. "Who?"

"The...man. I...he's the one that found me. His name is Hotstreak."

Junior sneered at the name. "Sorta name is that?"

Richie shrugged, picking out a sliver in the table and pulling it away. "It's a little more dignified than 'Junior', _Junior_."

Junior stilled. It was the first time Richie had spoke to him so derisively. Even as Richie shot him a cautious look, judging his reaction, Junior forcefully restrained himself from reacting physically. He shifted in his seat, shooting Richie an annoyed look. His fingers curled into a fist, but he forced them open again. He made himself sip at the coffee once more, gathering his thoughts. Setting the cup down, he said, "How'd you get this far? Thought we were goners, fo'sure..."

Richie quietly explained what had happened to him, Junior listening incredulously. Marveling at his luck. After Richie finished, stumbling over Hotstreak's arrival at the Lakota's camp, Junior stared at him with an expression of confusion.

"This man...you know him?"

"...Vaguely," Richie muttered, looking down at the table. "He...he was a customer."

Junior lifted an eyebrow. He knew that customers were sometimes enamored of their whores–repeating their visits, frequenting the saloon just to be close to them. There were times when customers grew jealous and roused fights with others to keep their favorites from being used by others. This was normal–but Junior couldn't remember any of Richie's customers, in the short amount of time he'd 'worked' there, that frequented his use.

"That...the preacher?" he asked cautiously, trying to imagine the fire-and-brimstone man that dictated the bible by day.

"NO. He...this was just before we left. He...he was there in Runner's Valley. He...he was there when he...took...when I was shot."

Junior blinked, then the image of the big redhead he'd encountered in the kitchen at the saloon, and during the chaos in Runner's Valley, came to mind. His brow furrowed, and he gave Richie a long, studious look.

"Ya'll...ya'll in _love_?" he asked, in disbelief.

"_NO_," Richie nearly shouted, reddening.

"He followin' you all over the damn country!"

"I–! _I'm_ not–! But, but he..."

Junior continued to stare at him, not really thinking as he said, "You said it was only one night? Could've been makin' more money–"

"You are–! Piggishly absurd–! You–! _Rude_, inconsiderate_–PRICK_!" Richie snapped, rising from his chair, obviously flustered and angered at Junior's out loud musings.

Junior watched him walk away, blinking with wondrous stupor. For a man to search out another through all the chaos, to be so dedicated to one whore–boy?–was amazing to him. He hadn't had that same sort of dedication in searching out his own _father_. At the same time, he understood that this behavior was questionably dangerous. He knew about ownership, about jealousy–he knew he was in danger just being here. A man clouded with imagined love and possession was a man desperate to keep what he found dear. Any threat, imagined or real, was a dangerous one.

Junior frowned. "Ya'll alone wit' 'im, then?"

Richie fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt, drawing the wrists around his palms. "Yes. It's...it's just us living here. He's claimed the farm as...as ours."

Playing with the mug, Junior blinked curiously. "'_Ours'_?"

"He...he said that the...the sheep and cattle are mine. That he'd take care of them until...he just wants to settle down."

"Sounds like he's makin' plans with a woman!" Junior snapped.

"I'm not–!"

"Ya'll _married_?"

"NO!"

"Don't matter! Ya'll alone out here! He makin' ya out ta be some sorta housewife! Can't make a housewife outta some whore–!"

Richie shot him a disgusted look, angrily slamming his chair under the table. "You are just a–angry, piggish–!"

"'M just _sayin_'! You ain't ever gonna find a wife o' yer own! Too many men can figger out whatcha been up to, 'specially wit' them looks! You may as well as git yerself a man–!"

"You speak of blasphemy–!"

"Blasphemy or not, it true!" Junior snapped. He crossed his arms stubbornly. "You're so dumb to things, you need someone around ta do yer shit–!"

"I'm not helpless!" Richie cried angrily. "I've survived this long, I've come this far–! I can take care of myself!"

Junior snorted, rubbing his nose with his thumb. "Kid, you wouldn't've if that man wasn't around. You'd of died in Runner's Valley wit'out him. You'd of died if he hadn't been there when those Indians were kilt. Puhlease..."

Richie huffed, but had to admit that incident in Runner's Valley was true. He turned away, flushing angrily–but getting angry, getting riled up over Junior's accusations was making his poor health more apparent.

Junior chewed angrily at the piece of bread he hadn't yet finished, worked up as well. He scowled over at Richie, noting the pulling on the sleeves. "Betcha wit'out him, you'd've succeeded in that foolishness, too."

Richie stilled. He looked at Junior with a sort of startled expression, then shifted that into a sullen one, pulling at his sleeves once more.

"Don't you think I ain't knowin' what that's about. Been workin' with whores all my life. Some succeed, some don't. How long ago was that?"

Richie lifted his nose, haughty expression in place. "This is none of your business. You don't own me."

"No..._he_ does!"

Richie grit his teeth. He shot Junior a venomous expression. "I hope you're not thinking of staying."

Junior was instantly contrite, shifting angrily in his chair. "Look...sorry...just...it ain't easy fo' me ta be..."

"You aren't sorry for anything, Junior. Without your former power and control, you're helpless and frustrated over it."

Junior threw his hat angrily at him. "I _realize_ that! You little shit–! Always pushin' your damn–! Gawdammit, you piece o' shit whore!"

Richie sneered at him. "You haven't changed a bit, Junior."

Junior rose, growing furious, reddening in the face. "Boy, you are just–! _ASKING_–!"

Growling low, he took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to sit once more. His knuckles were white, fists tightly curled. Richie watched him with a moody look, observing his struggle.

"Someone needs ta beat out yo' damn mouth, you fuckin' piece of shit," Junior muttered, after he was more calm.

Richie snorted. "Would be nothing new. I'm not surprised at any sort of violence or abuse anyone inflicts upon me. Nothing shocks me anymore."

Junior scoffed, but the pure bitterness, the resentment in Richie's soft voice was extremely heavy. He looked up, realizing how old Richie seemed at that moment. He then felt significantly shamed that this boy, once filled with promise and success, was broken into a shell of simmering anger. Enough anger and hurt to slit his wrists. His downcast eyes flit briefly to the bandages that were barely visible underneath the hems of his sleeves.

He cleared his throat. "What about your man? Must care 'nough ta follow you around an' take care of you."

Pink lips tightened into a rigid line of repressed fury. Eyes darkened into almost black pools of hate. "He's the worst one."

Bewildered at that, Junior stared at him for a few moments, then he looked away, trying to imagine what it was about this 'savior' that caused such a reaction. The boy had been beaten, raped, verbally, mentally, and emotionally abused–he'd been shot, bit, starved, scarred–Junior couldn't imagine what made this man 'worse'.

Before he could say anything more, they both started at the sound of someone walking up the front porch. Richie stilled, shooting Junior a scared look. Junior tensed, the front door opening, admitting a man that sighed tiredly as he entered.

At the approach of Hotstreak to the kitchen, both males looked up. Hotstreak looked at Richie, flashing a sort of tired smile before realizing he wasn't alone.

Looking over and seeing Junior sitting there, Hotstreak stilled. Then his expression darkened considerably upon recognizing him.

Junior wished he'd left earlier. The sudden and building tension was suffocating, clogging his airway. Without any law, without any order out in this chaos, the man was allowed to do whatever he wanted and get away with it. Hotstreak could kill him–and there'd be no help from Richie.

Junior judged the man carefully, noting the size, strength, and meanness reflected in those narrowed green eyes. He'd worn his sidearms, but if they drew...Junior had no idea what sort of shot Hotstreak was. He really didn't want to find out.

Even Richie stilled at the thick tension, looking from one man to another. Wood popped suddenly, and it looked as if both men were going for their guns until Richie moved quickly, reaching between them to pick up Junior's dishes. Determination of the redhead told Junior that he wouldn't dare draw with the blond being there.

Green eyes narrowed and darkened once more, staring at Junior with a sort of assessing expression that begged the younger Alva to make a move.

"What's he doin' here?" he demanded, voice raised with severe dissatisfaction.

Richie glanced at Junior carelessly, turning his back to both to put things away.

"Ask him," he muttered, in a sort of subdued tone Junior hadn't heard before.

He had to wonder just what sort of wrong Hotstreak had committed to make him that way.

Hotstreak hadn't looked away from Junior. "What you doin' here?"

Junior could tell–for it was plainly obvious–that Hotstreak wanted to do away with him. He was looking for any excuse to draw. Carefully, he explained, "In all honesty, I wandered in this here direction. Never had I imagined ever–_EVER_–findin' ya'll here."

A disgusted snort erupted from the redhead. "I'm sure ya'll did."

A dark glare was sent in Richie's direction.

Not seeing this, Junior explained, "I'd been ridin' for days. Came across no one but you two. I had no real destination in mind–truthfully, I'm just...real _surprised_ to stumble on ya."

Hotstreak removed his hat, face hardened with grim determination as he stared at Junior, searching for a lie. He looked back at Richie, who was staring at the sink, pensively listening to their exchange. Junior finally caught the expression, shaking his head.

"I never knew he was alive 'til 'bout twenty minutes ago,"he said quietly, sternly. "I was mighty shocked to see that he is."

The silence, filled with disbelief and doubt, was so thick that it seemed that the fire in the woodstove had died out. Time just seemed to stop–the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and his stomach roiled with tortured fright for his own life. Junior realized that he was scared, and that was probably the only real reason why he wasn't trying to leave.

"I ain't _lyin_'!" he then said, growing insistent as he realized that Hotstreak didn't believe him.

He stared at Hotstreak with measured calculation, sensing the tension mounting once more. He'd never been so attuned to others' sense of violence than he did, now. Being aware of it, without the backup of his own confidence and friends, made him uncertain and at a loss over what he should be doing. He grit his teeth, managing to rise from his chair. His legs were intensely shaky and weak, but he managed to do it. "I'll leave, now."

Richie looked over at him with an assessing frown. "No," he finally said, Hotstreak exclaiming with a negative of his own. "Stay for the night. I owe you that much."

"You don't owe him _shit_!" Hotstreak barked, making him wince. A darkened glare had Richie looking at the floor, too subdued to try anything more. But that rigid line of his lips was offsetting to the position he'd taken. Hotstreak looked back at Junior, sneering, "You'll leave, now. An' you ain't takin' him wit' you. You don't own him."

Junior assessed him with a sideways glance, then looked at Richie, who looked at neither. "No," he said quietly. "I don't own 'im, an' I wasn't plannin' on takin' him. It was never my intention in th' first place."

"I'm so sure it _weren't_."

"I stumbled upon ya'll by _chance_! An' nothin' more! I brought no ill will. I know I done some wrong, an' I realize tha–!"

"Yeah, yeah, _yeah_. Now, git outta here!" Hotstreak barked, gesturing at the door. "Don't come back, or I swear I'll shoot ya! Unnerstand?"

"Crystal," Junior muttered, plopping his hat atop of his head. He pulled on his gloves and looked over at Richie, saying, "Thank ya fer the coffee–"

"You gave 'im _my_ coffee?" Hotstreak about shrieked in dismay.

"–an' the food–"

"AN' _my_ food?" Hotstreak exclaimed, utterly appalled as he stared over at Richie.

Junior realized that he was getting no where. He wondered if he were making things worse. He nodded at Richie, who didn't even look up as Junior left the kitchen through the back door. As he left the porch, he glanced back at the house, feeling awkward at the trouble he'd caused, at the boy he was to leave behind.

**010101010110**

Hotstreak watched Junior mount his horse, leaving the property along the front road that led east. He looked back at the silent blond with an expression of disbelief.

"He just _happened_ ta find you by _shit-blind luck_?" he asked in shock, gesturing angrily. He was quite fearful that he was going to lose Richie to Junior–it made him sick, desperate.

Richie shrugged a shoulder, not looking at him.

Hotstreak asked, "What are you thinkin'? Why you wantin' him ta stay? How long was he here?"

Richie said nothing, now understanding Hotstreak's reaction to Junior. The man was jealous–insanely so. But he didn't want Hotstreak to get the wrong idea about this unexpected situation. He didn't feel anything towards the man, except for a little gratefulness for teaching him the things that were useful.

"It's not what you think," he finally muttered, almost too low for the redhead to hear. He was angry for feeling more like property than a human.

"Then _what_?" Hotstreak cried. "What am I _s'pposed_ ta think? 'M s'pposed ta believe that he found us by some sorta '_accident_'? Out here, in th' middle of no where?"

Internally debating answering, Richie clenched his teeth, not needing to look up to see that Hotstreak didn't believe it. Truth to tell, he himself was still shocked at seeing Junior alive. He wasn't sure if he should believe it himself.

"This is damn _bullshit_! This ain't happenin'! You tol' me he was dead! _You said he was dead_–why you lie 'bout it? Why you tryin' to feel that for someone that fucked ya somethin' awful like that? Why th'–? This is _horseshit_. Alla it. _Dammit_! This ain't–am I s'pposed ta believe that he found us by some fuckin' accident?" he repeated, growing increasingly agitated.

Fueled by fears of abuse, Richie couldn't stay silent any longer. "Yes," he mumbled, quieter than before. Still not looking up. "Because that's exactly what happened."

"I'll bet it was," Hotstreak snarled, hurling his hat across the room with a stream of curses. He felt so angry, so helpless–! Shocked that Junior had found them. On 'accident'. Tension mounted, and he ventured forward, feeling desperate in that he wanted to believe–but it was so damn outlandish! What were the odds? The chances? This man was supposed to be dead!

Richie immediately faced him upon his approach, obviously waiting to be struck. Hotstreak stopped cold in his tracks, immediately calming so not to scare or give him any confirmation that he was going to lower himself to that disgrace. He didn't feel the need to hurt him–just the need to cling possessively at him. He struggled mightily to rein in this desperation, but his hands were shaking as he reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt to draw him close. Richie resisted for a moment, but couldn't resist the strength the redhead used to draw his body against his taller one.

He went completely rigid as Hotstreak exhaled shakily, squeezing him within his arms. As if by doing so, he would keep him from disappearing. Richie was suffocated against his chest, trying to draw his head back to gather breath–but Hotstreak held on so tightly, squeezing him painfully as his mind continued to panic over the possibility of Junior stealing off with Richie when his back was turned.

Or, worse, if Richie went back to him voluntarily.

He jerked, hands grasping at Richie's head to pull back. Looking into his eyes, as Richie gasped for air, Hotstreak asked shakily, "You wouldn't go, would ya? Go wit' 'im? He'll use ya agin. Ain't you better off wit' me? I don't hit you! I don't do that stuff to you!"

Richie found it absurd that Hotstreak thought he'd go with Junior. As if he wanted that life again? His brow crinkled, and bitterness laced his tone as he sneered, "As if I had a choice in either situation?"

"You have choices here," Hotstreak insisted, hands tightening on Richie's face. It was painful, the blond wincing–but Hotstreak wasn't aware he was inflicting pain in his desperation.

"I'd made a choice. You didn't like it."

"Killing yourself wasn't a very good one!" Hotstreak growled back, grabbing his wrists. He jerked the sleeves back to reveal the white strips of cloth that hid the grotesque wounds he'd repaired himself. "What good is that? _Huh_?"

Richie managed to pull his arms from his grasp, jerking the sleeves back down. Glaring at him hatefully, he snarled, "A much more agreeable choice than living with a mad man!"

His left eye twitched, and Hotstreak caught Richie's arm, stopping him from leaving. His fingers burrowed deep into his triceps as he said softly, "You kin call me a lot of things. But I ain't mad. I've never treated you wrong. Bad choices I made, yes–but never have I raised a hand to ya. I'm a much better man than those others you got. Better'n the Indians, even. I've never made you work. You've had plenty of choices. But I ain't _insane_."

Richie said nothing, fight leaving him as he winced at the pain he felt in his upper arm. For a moment, all he heard was Hotstreak's quiet breathing–could feel green eyes boring into him with an insistent gaze.

Hotstreak let him go, and Richie pulled away from him, silently walking away. Catching his breath, Hotstreak watched him leave, wondering if he was as mad as Richie claimed. It saddened him to think that he'd never know.


	22. Cast Me Gently Into Morning

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Twenty-One:  
>Cast Me Gently Into Morning<strong>

Fate. Destiny. Coincidence. Luck.

Richie was thinking about all four in a sort of dull, hazy reflection as he watched Hotstreak feed the cattle in the correl nearby. The moody braw of cattle broke the silence of morning, sheep adding their high-pitched complaints as they milled around throughout the property, having escaped their pen. There was a sharp cold in the air, but he braved it just to enjoy the freedom of being outside. His teeth chattered slightly, so he pulled the quilt tighter around himself. His wrists pulled with the movement, not yet healed completely, so he gentled the action as best as he could.

Sitting on the porch swing, he toed the wooden porch to get some motion going as he thought about his 'luck' so far. Then he began mulling over his still awed feeling of knowing that Junior was alive. Somehow, someway, that horrid man was still alive. How was this possible? He still questioned his own luck in survival, calculating the odds he'd faced just to see another wretched morning. In all collected misfortunes and horrors he'd endured since his arrival, he was vaguely amazed that survival had allowed him this far.

He'd lost track of days–but it had been late summer when he'd arrived in Alva's Town; the sudden arrival of winter conditions had fallowed with the invasion. Time and sense of reality had since been lost when he found himself trying to survive.

Going over Junior's surprise visit yesterday, Richie went over the words and actions exchanged. He kept wondering what he was going to do when he'd stopped himself from lifting a hand toward Junior. What action was he going to take? Touch him? Grab him? Push him away? He couldn't even figure that out himself, lifting his hand to examine it curiously, as if the answer was there in his palm.

The man's appearance, his obvious struggle to prove himself different from their last encounter, was something that Richie questioned. Richie knew nothing of Junior's survival story, but the man had learned his during that short time he'd stayed. How was it that Junior _survived_? Richie had to wonder about it as he exhaled warm air, settling more firmly in the swing so that he could rest his head against the back of the chair.

Junior hadn't mentioned anything about his father, or tried to enforce his slavery. He hadn't even challenged Hotstreak when confronted–that was surprising most of all. Before, Junior had gone all out to break Richie and enforce his power over him; yesterday, Richie had seen that Junior had broken his own reasons and feelings to be cordial.

Was it all a trick? A ploy? Or just a glimpse of the human being's ability to change and adjust according to rules of survival? Or had Junior just been too shocked to see Richie alive to react any other way, making his visit genuinely an 'accident'?

Richie was lost in thought over this, focusing out everything else. Eventually, he grew tired of racking his brain for answers that he couldn't figure out without having Junior actually there. Instead, he lifted a wrist, staring almost sightlessly at the strips he'd wrapped around the wound.

Out in the middle of country that had been more or less abandoned due to unnatural circumstances gave him the sense of feeling so utterly alone. He had always been surrounded by people–he was raised in New York City. To be closed off from all that was familiar, forced into near exile, was incredibly shocking. Add to all the traumas he'd endured, and it wasn't at all surprising that stress and depression had hit hard.

After that wretched night with Hotstreak, he'd been unable to sleep. Not wanting to wake up once more to that horrible feeling of being touched that way. Every time he _did_ manage to drift off, he awoke sharply once more at small sounds–the house settling, the sound of the redhead rummaging around in his own room...he just dreaded waking up at the touch from another person.

At the same while, thoughts and memories replayed over and over, crowding out anything pleasant and encouraging that he'd experienced throughout his years. He'd forgotten his parents, and he'd forgotten his home–all that was comforting was pinned out by the gruesome things he'd witnessed and experienced since his arrival by Alva. For a few days, all his mind played were the rapes, the beatings, the harsh and angry words, the deaths, and the demonic creatures. He didn't leave his room, and simply laid in bed, lost to all the horrors that just seemed to consume him. He hadn't any memory of how he'd managed to do things–it was as if his memories just took over him.

Finally, he'd snapped out of it–sometimes sobbing uncontrollably in his bed, forcing himself to accept Hotstreak's advances, and needing, absolutely _needing_ to let go of all that he'd held dear. When Hotstreak was gone, he'd thrown his books–held so precious for their comfort and attachment to his past in New York–into the wood stove. The picture of his parents had followed. With the destruction of what had been his promise for a good future and a reminder of who had been so loving to him had him determined to end his life.

It was just fate's cruel hand to have Hotstreak return early from his daily activities to prevent even that.

Still, he had to wonder–the attempt had been made with serious intent. He'd made sure he was warm and near heat to encourage the blood flow, not wanting to waste time with heating water for a bath. But...there were other ways...why hadn't he done _them_ rather than try an attempt that had been thwarted?

He had to wonder now, with Junior's appearance, if he'd been _meant_ to fail. If he'd been _meant_ to remain alive for some...purpose.

_Why hadn't he died_? Why was he still _alive_?

With all the stacked horrors and misfortunes...he _should_ have been dead. But...he wasn't...there had to be a reason why this was so. Was there some bigger reason out there that was meant for him? Was there some sort of light at the end?

He couldn't be alive...he _shouldn't_ be.

But there was a reason _why_ he was still here!

Propelled by this continuing line of thinking, Richie began to feel warm. Not by material or physical warmth–but by something much more greater than anything tangible. Junior's unexpected and surprising appearance had meant _something_. He had to wonder if he would have began thinking this way hadn't the younger Alva showed up. With a suddenly racing pulse, he realized that Junior's unexpected visit had prompted something within him he wouldn't have felt if not for this line of questioning internally. He would still be lost in the suffocating haze of depression and suicidal thoughts, not questioning the _whys_.

He startled once he realized that he wasn't alone. So lost in thought, he hadn't been aware that Hotstreak had sat next to him on the swing, an arm stretching out behind him to pull him close. Still, despite his changed line of thinking, Richie tensed in that possessive hold, more aware of the man that scared him most. Hotstreak may demonstrate gentle and loving behavior and thinking toward him, but there was a darkness behind all of it that was unpredictable. There was no knowledge of this man that assured him any encouraged line of thinking or trust. Hotstreak may have shared some stories of his past to appear cheerful, jolly and just as dim-witted as everyone said he was, but Richie's way of thinking, cultured by traumatic abuse, told he could trust no one. No one was trustworthy. That darkness of Hotstreak's was something that would keep Richie at a continued distance until Richie could either realize his intended fate, or...or otherwise.

He wasn't sure what 'otherwise' was. That was something out of his reach.

"I'm glad you're outside, today," Hotstreak said quietly, a sort of content expression on his face. He ran his fingers with gentle decision through Richie's hair, contemplating the strands. "But don't be tryin' anythin' strenuous."

Richie doubted he had any energy or need to do anything of the sort. He watched some sheep mill about with their dazed expressions, Charger grazing in a field just past the barn. He kept himself from flinching away from Hotstreak's touch, but his skin seemed to curl at contact.

Still, Hotstreak pulled his fingers from his hair, sitting up so that he wasn't holding Richie against him. Tiredly, he rubbed his face, pushing his hat off his head. Richie watched him quietly, taking in the obvious exhaustion of hard physical labor. He had done his share of staring and studying his captor, and while the man's intentions were hateful and insane, he _did_ recognize a sort of sadness upon remembering how he felt the very first time he met Hotstreak.

He had found him so physically ideal, had been in awe of his eyes; he'd enjoyed the sound of Hotstreak's voice, had imagined him to be so capable of good things. He recalled wanting to see the redhead again after that first night; had enjoyed his touch that next day. All those things that had given him a small joy after a hateful experience, and...to have it all ripped away because of Hotstreak's selfishness, his lack of moral...now, knowing what he was capable of, Richie just felt aching disappointment and sickness.

He stared out at the fields that were open to them. Something small inside of him wondered if they could live in solitude out here. And...and he'd have to. He had no choice. And...quite frankly...he was too tired to fight.

He would have to live the rest of his life with this man. Screw the constant hope of anything else. He wondered, if he just submitted and dulled himself to Hotstreak's concept of peaceable living, if he could somehow be somewhat _human_ with it. Could he, after some time, eventually warm up to the man? Accept all his madness and glory just for the sake of it?

He wondered about this, trying to picture himself going along as a mindless love slave–or whatever it was Hotstreak wanted him to be–and just living...peacefully. With this farm...with their cattle and sheep and one horse...with this house and all the comforts within?

Hotstreak rested his elbows on his knees, twisting slightly to look back at him. He felt that heavy weight in his stomach as he realized that things, no matter how much he wanted them, wouldn't be the way he had thought. Richie still stared off into space with that faraway expression; he always tensed up. In bed, he was mechanic and rigid, and above it all–he'd never seen another smile. Another grateful and thankful expression.

That one time he was given such a thing was in the Lakota camp, when he'd given Richie his books. That was the only time...and...it didn't seem as if he would be granted that miracle again. Because of all his wrongdoings and bad decisions.

It seriously hurt how it felt he never did anything right. He was always fucking things up.

With that eternally black feeling weighing down his soul, he forced himself up and away from the swing. He walked away, Richie watching him leave with an indifferent expression on his face.

**010101010110**

That night, Richie sat at the edge of his bed, still questioning his involvement with this life. The silence had been shattered with the frustrated screams, growls and snarls from the Things outside. That first night of their arrival, Richie would admit he was terrified. But the Things kept up their visits with sporadic arrivals either at night, or during the day. He hadn't seen them in broad daylight–but he could _feel_ their eyes on them as the pair of them wandered around outside.

He had to wonder why they wouldn't venture outside during the day. The Things only attacked at night, and even as they knew they couldn't get in, they were still angry at being unable to enter.

He listened to their frustrated and frantic efforts to get into the house, calmly wondering why they just didn't attack during the day when they left the house. Maybe they operated on some sort of magic...some sort of–

Were they _intelligent_? Were...could he somehow communicate with them?

...how would he know if he didn't try?

He looked over at the window, taking a deep breath. He was suddenly filled with need on wanting to know why the things never attacked during the day. Why they feared sage and sweetgrass. He pushed away from the bed, looking over his shoulder at the open door. He wasn't sure what Hotstreak was doing in his own room, but...

He walked over to the window, hearing the sudden shift of weight on the roof. It felt...it felt as if someone was watching him as he approached, swallowing hard. Things seemed to go silent for a few moments as he stared at the latch, then expectation hit him hard.

He opened the latch, pushing the window up, the sharp chill of night drifting in to hit him with a forceful push of cold. Staring out at the darkness outside, he listened to the utter and suffocating silence of the outside. Animals and insects alike refused to move or announce their presence when these Things were present. The eerie feeling grew on him as he stood there, thinking of something to say.

Finally, in an annoyed tone, he asked, "If you know you can't get in, why do you keep on trying?"

Hearing nothing, he scowled at the outer edges of the window, hearing nothing more of the frustrated turns of the doorknobs, the scratch of nails on wood. His eyes darted to every corner of the open window, his fingers lightly curled–he swallowed again, listening for any telltale sounds of the Things' presence, or incoming attack.

He was scared–he wouldn't deny that. But curiosity proved stronger than that base survival instinct.

He jerked at the sharp creak of wood just outside his window–the obvious sensation of knowing that he wasn't alone.

_Eventually, you'll come outside_, came the voice–not from the outside and taken by ear, but in a sort of low, accented whisper deep inside his being. It gave Richie the feeling that he wasn't alone in his own skin–that presence seemed to fill the entire room with its invisible force.

Hairs stood on end, but to hear it speak...to know that it was intelligent, gave him a strange sort of hope.

"If you were smart enough, you'd have found a way to get us to go outside during the night," he said evenly.

_Fire doesn't work well in the winter_, the voice said sullenly.

"I don't understand. You've tried?"

_We are allergic to fire_, it confessed.

The confession was amusing. But it gave Richie a sense of feeling that these things, conscienceable and intelligent, were actually filled with limits and restrictions than he previously believed. Making the Things tangible to injury gave him hope.

"That's unfortunate."

_Very. Now...be kind. We're a busy people. Kindly step outside so we can finish our job here_.

"Sorry, as bad as things are going, I'd rather not," Richie said, and he truly bewildered himself as to why he didn't bother with that suggestion when he was so hateful of his life.

_It was because of Junior_, he thought, thinking of the man. _If he hadn't come along_...

"Let us talk plainly," came the voice aloud, startling Richie. It was a low, gravelly sound–as if tinged by billions of cigarettes. "We are here to destroy you. You hate your life. Let us compromise. I'll make it quick, and you'll never have to worry again about that man visiting you in the night."

Richie felt his face flush with shame and embarrassment upon knowing that these Things were aware of what was happening.

"You think he'll stop? He hasn't, before. And when has a human being respected your wishes? I'm sure you're quite tired of it all. I heard they don't do that stuff in Heaven."

This was said with a smirk. Heavy sarcasm.

And despite his humiliation, Richie felt a smugness in him that these Things couldn't get to him and were frustrated with it.

He tilted his head to the side. "What are you? Can I see you?"

The Thing was quiet for a moment, as if questioning his words with a puzzled sort of air. Then, there was a heavy shift on wood, as if it were joined by another.

"The light bothers us," another voice confessed, in a much lower bass. Tilted with a lisp.

Richie looked over at the oil based lamps that were lit throughout his room, then looked at the window. He began debating his curiosity and survival instinct as they battled; one wanting him to kill most of the light to see this Thing, and the other wanting him to shut the window and shut up.

Curiosity was stronger.

He killed off the flame in two of the lamps, leaving one burning near the washroom. The room was very dim, but light enough for him to see clearly enough where he was going and what was there. Looking at the window once more, listening for Hotstreak, he waited to see the Things.

Moments passed, and he began questioning his curiosity when two pinpoints of red blinked at him through the inky blackness outside his window. Stark fear filled him at that moment, the image of red burned into his eyelids as the pinpoints of light stared at him with unblinking activity. Darkness shifted around those pinpoints, and even as he questioned how a being could seemingly float outside his window to give that position of standing, Richie stared right back.

Nothing was said, and Richie squinted behind his glasses to try and see more of it. Two more pinpoints of red appeared suddenly in the upper right corner of the window, telling him the other was peering at him from a position just above the jutting frame.

He looked back at the first set of eyes, a little startled to see yet another set at the lower left corner of his window.

"Why can't you come in?" he asked curiously, the question more burning than any other at that moment.

"We're allergic to weeds," the first confessed, its voice much more clearer than before. "Makes us sneeze. We do not like to sneeze."

"To sweetgrass? But...I don't understand. How can a weed, unblessed by a church, keep you demons at bay?"

"The church has nothing to do with us."

"We don't like the church," the set of eyes from the left interrupted.

Hisses erupted, and that set disappeared suddenly.

"That seems a little cliche," Richie said, frowning with a sort of puzzled frown. "If you are so disagreeable with church, then–"

"It does not matter to us," the first said. Little by little, pale white and pink emerged, until Richie was seeing the First's face. Distracting tattoos and glint of silver proved distracting as it said, "what matters is that _you_ need to be destroyed. I can do it quickly and without pain."

Richie's sense of purpose was strengthened–just knowing that _his_ death was all they were seeking. That this wasn't random.

The First's lips pulled into a strange smile. "Would you like to continue living your life like this? With the way he is, do you think that he'll just continue to let you go? What of the next man that comes along? Do you think that he would just kill him and let it be done? How do you know that he doesn't blame you for all their stares? You probably do not even know just how much he thinks about you–probably don't even know how much he fears you leaving him."

Richie listened to all of this, picturing the man the First spoke of. It chilled him to hear these words, hissed with spite and truth, yet...he knew it was all a ploy for the creature to convince him to come outside.

"How many of you are there?" he asked quietly, totally disregarding the First's words.

Its face screwed into that of a disgusted sneer, and pulled back into the darkness, shifting. "You make him insecure, that one. There'll be a day when he realizes that your words, your voice is no longer needed. How do you know you'll survive when he cuts out your tongue so you cannot speak to any other? How do you know you'll miss the sensation of feeling the grass and dirt underfoot when he cuts off your feet to keep you from leaving him? How do you know you'll miss the sight of your animals when he decides to scoop out your eyes with one the spoons you mix your coffee with? Do you think that he does not think this?"

Chilling, making Richie's stomach clench, he could feel stark fear eating at his insides as he questioned the gruesome musings.

While he couldn't deny those things, because he knew there was darkness in Hotstreak that propelled this prompt, he knew what the Thing was doing.

"Are there more of you? And how is it you can only operate in the dark? How is it you're still alive? I'm sure I shot a couple of you–is that why there is only three of you?"

"Every time you're not looking, he's wondering how else he can take you apart. He's just waiting for you to trust him–"

"Were you once human? How is it that you live? Were you raised in the underworld? Do crosses hurt you? Do you frequent cemeteries? Feed on human flesh? Are you–?"

"_Stupid human_!" the First hissed in frustration. Eyes widened with rising impatience. "Don't you understand that it's your _life_ that he's wanting to destroy? Don't you understand that–"

"I already understand that human beings are wretched, evil creatures. That their ugly animosity resides deep in the cover of their stupid flesh. I hate people–there is nothing good in _any_ of them that claim to be what they say they are. I _know_ this. I won't make that mistake again. I won't be that naive! As for what they do to me, I don't care, anymore. I just don't. Now, answer my questions!"

The First gave him a long look of impatient annoyance, shifting once more. "He'll disfigure you. He'll–"

"Then I'd rather it was one person hurting me, and not many. NOW...the threat to my life isn't something of importance. But...but I have to wonder why you're so focused on destroying me. Can you answer to that?"

"Human life is to be extinguished. All are vile–"

"And of course I agree with you."

"...and...just..._die_. You'll need to die. Come here."

"I will not!" Richie scoffed. "I want to know why it is that _I_ have to die when all the crimes committed were against me! Now, why do _I_ have to pay for others' stupid mistakes? I want to know _why_!"

"Your life, and his, are about as valuable as all the others! Humans need to be extinguished, and your is the only ones in this territory that has been swept clean!"

"_Lies_," he huffed. "You're just desperate to say things to try and convince me that _I_ need to die. Frankly, I see no reason why _I_ have to when I suffered through a great deal of things that were unfairly rendered. Why don't you just kill _him_ and make it all even? After all, what can _I_ do to the lot of you that would make you feel threatened?"

Hisses once more, and the First bared its teeth.

"I completely _agree_ that humans are vile. So, I just don't understand that–"

The pinpoints of light disappeared suddenly, the shifting weight telling him that the things were shifting position. They were leaving his window. With a dismayed denial, he rushed to the window, peering out. All he saw were three abnormal beings leaping from the roof, heading for the ground. He was very disappointed to lose this, clutching the window tightly as he went over the conversation with a frustrated sort of air.

He was jerked forcefully away from the window, Hotstreak cursing at him as he shut and locked it. Richie was startled by his appearance, haven't even heard him coming in. Of course, he had to wonder if this man's presence had been the reason for the creatures' sudden disappearance, and was bewildered by it. So many questions, so many things–! And it was all so frustrating and fascinating at the same time.

"Why are they scared of you?" he demanded as Hotstreak looked back at him with puzzled reaction. "And how is it that you know of these things? Yes, you've told me you had experience with them before, but–!"

"You were _talkin_' to them? How you do that?" Hotstreak asked with that same puzzled tone.

"When was your first monster encounter? You never told me that," Richie pressed. "And these friends you speak of? Where are they? How did you–?"

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_!" Hotstreak held up his hands, absolutely bewildered at this flare of life. After so many days of seeing Richie so suicidal and depressed, seeing this complete change had thrown Hotstreak for a loop. "What's wit' all these questions?"

"I just want to know! Why are they so determined to kill us when we're the only beings here? Especially me? I didn't do anything to anybody, yet these things are willing to come by here, night after night to try and kill us–me! Why am I so important? And why can't they come out during the day when we're outside? And–!"

"_I don't know_!" Hotstreak cried, hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out the rapid fire words that were being shot at him. "Geez, chill out. I don't know these things."

Frustrated, Richie stared at him. "That night in Runner's Valley? Who's Caine?"

"Eh?" Hotstreak stared right back. The boy had been separated from them. How did he know...? "I...it's a...guy. In charge of it all..."

"So there is just _one_ man leading the forces of darkness? And...and this 'him' you're always talking about? Who's that?"

"...Uh...Caine. This guy that...uh..."

"What sort of army is this? How did it form? Where are the creatures from? Does this prove a Heaven and a Hell? Are they from Hell? Does this mean that–?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Hotstreak screamed, startling Richie quiet.

Richie frowned at him, chewing fitfully on the inside of his cheek. He studied Hotstreak's frustrated expression, clearly detailing his surprise at the barrage of questions. More just popped into place, and he realized that there was a great deal of things that the redhead hadn't told him. Things just seemed to crowd and bunch in him at that moment–colliding with the sense of urgency that made it all just more frustrating. He needed answers–the very same way thirst and hunger affected a human.

Fitfully, his fingertips danced over the bandages of his wrists, just lost in gripping thought. He continued staring up at Hotstreak, not really seeing him as a vile piece of shit that he hated, but as an unopened book. Full of information that, if read and translated right, would help him with all his unanswered questions.

Strangely, he had to resist the gripping urge to rip the man apart with his own violent fury to see if the answers lay inside that six-foot-four wall of muscle. It was a very outlandish urge–something that he attributed to the violent _need to know_ feeling that was prompting an override over all bases of previous fear.

Hotstreak waved his arms about. "Don't open that, no mo'. Don't talk ta them. They'll talk ya inta doin' somethin' you'll regret. They can kill you, you know..."

"The fact that they want to, that they're so determined to is what interests me. I want to know _why_."

"Because we're the only ones out here!"

"Then why aren't they trying to kill _you_?"

"THEY ARE! THEY HAVE SINCE IT ALL STARTED!"

"_How_ did it all start? When? Why? What–?"

"God, _SHUT UP_!"

Richie went quiet, staring at him pensively while Hotstreak tried to block out those still startling memories of the train robbery that went awry. Feeling sullen and angry about once more reliving that moment, his fault of the entire devastation and situation of the invasion began welling up once more.

He waited while Hotstreak battled those private demons, of managing to push away the guilt and the faults to the side to face him once more.

"Why you wantin' to know all this?" he finally spit, voice laced with heavy anger and impatience.

"Because...I...don't know how it all started."

"No one does!"

"_You_ do!"

"...I don't wanna talk about it."

Richie stamped his foot in frustration, not even knowing that he did. "Then you _do_ know how it all started!"

"It wasn't my fault! It just happened!"

"Why can't you tell me how it all started!"

"BECAUSE I DON'T WANNA!"

"That's–! _Foolishness_! I need to know why and how it started! I need to know what you know!"

"Why? What's it to you? Like you kin do anythin' about it!"

Richie stilled at that. That was another question, and more was following. Yes, he did want to know why and how–he did have more questions after that. But...but once he had the information, what to do with it?

That wall was hard, and it hurt to hit it.

All this awakening was giving him a massive headache, and he removed his glasses to rub at his eyes.

He then turned away from Hotstreak, walking over to sit at the edge of his bed. He stared off at the far corner of his room while Hotstreak watched him sullenly, absolutely bewildered to this changed personality. While it was absolutely nice to see that Richie still had some life to him, what was more bewildering was that he was able to communicate with those monsters and suddenly...suddenly he had a purpose that Hotstreak wasn't yet able to understand.

And...it clicked. It really did.

Somehow, it involved him. Somehow, the feeling and utterly hot sensation of knowing that he did something _right_ hit him with a forceful blow over the back of his head. He was hit with the same headache that Richie had at that moment, and he reached up to grip his head with an angsty groan of pain. Both of them hunched over in pain, gripping their heads–more involved with their own pain to notice the other's.

Hotstreak left his room without any further comment or look, and Richie just concentrated on himself, curling up on his bed to somehow drown out that pain that seemed to rattle and upset all that he knew.


	23. Please Stop the Unborn Chicken Voices

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Twenty-Two:  
>Please Stop The Unborn Chicken Voices<strong>

Junior frowned down at Luna, his horse shifting with anxious regard. His mind was running with thoughts and with what he'd experienced since he left Luna, but most of the anxiety wasn't with his return to Luna–it was with the almost alien feeling of plans running through his mind.

Before he had separated with Richie, all he could think about was using that kid's mind for his plot against his father. To capture the trust and the loyalty of survivors that needed to know they were protected, for Richie seemed to notice things about the animals that no one else did. And there was potential in his intelligence for things that Junior could use; he'd fully planned on using the kid for that purpose, then...then things fell apart.

While since then he'd rethought all his previous troubles and regarded his callousness with that of regret and shame, he had to think how Richie could still be used for the purposes Junior had taken in, before.

His father didn't know half the information he was sure Richie did. His father was a wise, intelligent man, but Junior was sure he didn't possess the smarts that Richie did.

Junior was sure of that.

If Junior could use Richie's intelligence, figure out the creatures' weaknesses and strengths and use them to overcome them...he could build his own city, one that would rival Luna. All his supporters would leave his father and join with them, and Junior would have his revenge. His father would be crawling back to _him_. The utter satisfaction in that made him smile grimly, and his determination to follow through with his plans intensified. It was about time his father felt the anger and fury of wronging his own flesh-and-blood.

He could see that a group of gunmen had spotted him, and were trying to determine his motives as he looked over the town. Junior thought about approaching them, but realized that they'd tell his father. As much as he wanted nothing to do with the man...the men he was looking for was living down there.

_Hopefully_.

He thought of that tense moment in the kitchen, with Hotstreak ready to kill him if he made any move toward Richie.

He needed a lump of meat to lure the watchdog away from his prize.

Virgil had spoken constantly of trying to repair his relationship with Hotstreak; apparently, their history together was a very important one to him, and Junior retained that information without really thinking of it. It came in handy, though–perhaps Virgil could talk some sense into the redhead while he worked his own persuasive magic with Richie.

The boy was absolutely hateful of his current position. Perhaps...perhaps he'd like it better if his brain were used instead of his body. Perhaps he'd agree and cooperate faster if Junior suggested his line of planning...withholding the action of revenge against his father, of course.

As Junior stared out at Luna, his head began to pound with a heavy, utterly painful headache. It felt worse than a hangover–he slumped over his horse with a low groan, gloved hands curling over his head.

**010101010110**

"We will utilize every man that can hold and use a gun, an' will fight for this town," Alva commanded, his aged face tightening with determination and grit as he faced the hundreds of townspeople that listened to his every word. He was standing on the second floor balcony of his home, as if he were an old-world king commanding his kingdom peasants. Armed men stood at his sides, their faces as familiar as Alva's. "We need all the help that we can get if we want to survive. Everyone in this town will pitch in–ain't no one run out on their duties. Is this understood?"

At the murmurs of agreement, no one thinking much of 'running out from their duties', Alva was satisfied. His grim face, weathered by age and harsh command, seemed even older in the spring's light. He surveyed all that was around him, then grimly eyed the outer area of Luna–without the sun, he had to wonder how the crops would fare this year. He had to wonder just how well this town would do without the necessities needed for life.

It wasn't looking too good in that area, but he was too stubborn to let it all fall. They would persevere, even if he had to make those crops grow himself.

Still, even as he was studiously worrying about the crops and the needed necessities, his eyes scanned the crowd. Too proud to wear spectacles to appear weak and fragile in front of his minions, Alva searched secretly for a face he was inwardly hoping was part of that crowd. And when he found no familiarity of his son's presence with the town's members, he had to exhale lightly, straightening his shoulders and looking as commanding as possible.

Glancing around, Virgil wasn't that surprised to see that no one objected to the commands tossed out. Alva was constructing a very harsh, but workable scale for Luna to stay protected by the measures he was commanding. In this town, everyone pitched in to help–women helped with the menial chores and worked alongside men in the ammunition factory near the south end. Children helped with lesser chores–men worked to protect the entire town from any unnaturals that happened about. All available animals and workers worked the fields that were being set up on the south end of Luna, near the water sources running from the mountains that rimmed that direction.

And day after day, more and more survivors arrived, hearing word of the protection Alva was able to provide. With every arrival, Luna continued to grow. Manpower grew with promising integrity.

Still, despite the promise the town provided in protection measures, it was obvious Alva was striving to remain in control, and running a sort of hierarchy that the survivors were powerless to resist.

Virgil and the others worked what they could, but only in that they were looking for Sharon. The man hoped that with each arrival of new survivors, Sharon was one of them.

"This is insane," Adam whispered, rubbing his arms. It was nearing spring–the green all around them was apparent, as well as the warming of the air. It felt good to feel that warmth, but the sun was still hidden away by the thick clouds above. He, too, worried about the crops, but didn't feel it important to bring it up with the others. Alva had that worry to deal with. "I mean, it's like...yeah, he's good with all the protection an' order, but...there's somethin' fishy 'bout it all."

"I ain't complainin' yet," Virgil confessed, glancing at him, then throughout the crowd once more. "It all good. It all workin' just excellent, man. I ain't complainin'."

"But...still..." Adam trailed off, staring at the group of men that were coming into Luna. They brought with them a group of survivors, all of them astonished to see the population of the town, the factors of protection. He grinned, dismissing them already–Sharon was not part of that group. "It's gettin' real sucessful. More an' more people comin' in every day. Just...it gonna succeed, man. It gonna."

Virgil shrugged, sliding his hands into his back pockets. Alva was still speaking, but he'd long since filtered him out. Looking around, he saw that everyone was looking up at the man with expressions of admiration and thanks. There were more armed gunmen everywhere–all of them alert and waiting to fight. While he and Adam were part of this group–every man had to fight, weapons provided if none were owned–he just found it amazing that everyone was willing to throw themselves into their duties with nary a complaint.

It seemed, on the frank side, that the creatures had passed through the area and left it as that. Despite the numbers that protected Luna, was it all just for show? There hadn't been an encounter with creatures yet.

But it was best to be prepared.

**010101010110**

Hotstreak was in a dark mood as he pushed the sheep herd back to the house, a bawling lamb under one arm. Charger was chewing anxiously at his bit, and stumbling during the ride down the hill. The house was in sight–he stared at it with an expression of contemplation. He thought of Junior, the man's unexpected appearance constantly sending swirls of black misery through him. What did he want? Where did he come from? How did he know Richie was still alive? How did he find him?

All of these bothered him, and the fact that Richie could so easily be taken from him left him feeling angry. And miserable.

Everything was taken from him. Everything was being ripped from his grasp. All without his consent, without warning: all that he felt precious to him was living in that house, alone and lost. All he had, really–Virgil was no where to be found, no matter how promising it was to know that the man was alive. Frankly, Hotstreak had grown more focused on what he had _now_ to wonder about his dearest friend.

If Junior was coming back...intending to take Richie back with him–despite Richie saying he didn't want to go with him, Hotstreak had his doubts. The boy had confessed to having feelings for Junior. For looking at him as some sort of savior, some sort of...of mentor. 'Teaching' him things? Helping him survive? All of it _horseshit_.

How could one look beyond all the horrors that had been committed and see something _good_? The only way _that_ could happen was if...was if feelings were involved. This was Hotstreak's way of thinking.

Richie had feelings for Junior, and for that...for that, Hotstreak was angry. He'd relaxed because Junior was dead–supposedly–and now that he _wasn't_...?

He thought they were safe! Relatively speaking...there was still the threat of Indians' retaliation, of the invasion, of zombies and those Things...but safe from Junior.

From all the others that could take Richie from him...

Now that Junior was alive and Richie knew this...was he going to leave him? Unexpectedly just up and leave while Hotstreak was outside, working? Would Junior come back secretly and ride off with him? And would Richie even look back, considering all the wrongs that Hotstreak had committed? Why hadn't he seen the good that Hotstreak had done for him?

Angrily, he spurred Charger into a quicker pace, eying the surrounding acreage around the house, looking for some sign of Junior. That wretched man...if only he'd had the chance to kill him...

That night, Hotstreak was too upset to eat. He picked at the stew Richie had made, staring at him with a contemplative expression as the blond busied himself with other things. Obviously, the younger male was lost in deep thought; his brow was scrunched, eyes holding that far-off look...while Hotstreak recalled that Richie had many questions for the demons, he couldn't help but wonder if it was Junior that he was thinking about. If he were quietly plotting to leave him...he had to be.

Richie _had_ to be considering leaving him. After all, he'd tried to take his own life! Wasn't that a big clue of his misery here? Wasn't that...wasn't it obvious that he didn't want to be with Hotstreak?

But the redhead was miserable–he'd done all he could to provide a home for the boy. He'd given him both herds; he'd cared and loved him. Why would Richie _want_ to leave him? After all the horrors he'd gone through–even if sex had been forced, things should have evened out...after all, Hotstreak was never rough with him. He never threatened him, never hit him, never _all_ these things–_he never did_! And he expressed all the good that he felt, and he asked questions, and he _cared–all_ these things, and Richie would want to _leave it all_ for some bum that would be careless with him?

He was getting worked up over it, gritting his teeth as he angrily speared the chunks of meat in his bowl.

Richie looked up at the loud clink of silverware on china, taking in Hotstreak's angry expression. Wholly clueless to the man's mood, he forced himself to stop wondering why the Things feared Hotstreak and why the man wouldn't talk about that section of his past. He wasn't sure how to approach the man with questions and expressed emotion–mainly because he'd cut himself away from him. This man was dangerous and insane; and while Richie wanted to care nothing more about it, about this life...Junior's visit had changed everything.

Now...now that he had Purpose, he had a reason to wake up every morning. And he fully intended to find out _why_ for his survival.

He tried to think of the things he'd done wrong, today. But he'd stayed inside all day, working on his notes and questions–he'd made dinner. Maybe...maybe there had been something expected, and he'd forgotten about it.

Feeling that dreaded caution of knowing that anger was going to be taken out on him, he lost his appetite. He set his fork aside, hating the feeling of knowing he did something wrong. He hated feeling that he had to bow down to this attitude, and hated himself even more for being reduced to this mess of human baggage.

Hotstreak set his fork down, frowning at him across the table. "You'd leave if you had the chance, wouldn't you?"

Richie was really puzzled at that–but the anger in the redhead's tone scared him. He didn't want to meet the anger in those green eyes, so he focused on the table and wondered how he could skirt past all the anger with just remaining silent. That wretched fear of being beaten hit him hard; he had Junior to thank for that.

"If'n he came back ta git you. You'd go wit' him. _Wouldn't_ you?"

Genuinely confused, Richie considered the question. While Junior claimed that he'd changed...it could all be a trick. He hadn't given that thought. And he while he thought about it _now_, he wouldn't go with the man. He was too afraid of resuming old positions.

Was _this_ what the man was angry about? Had he been thinking about Junior's surprise appearance all this time?

He wanted to look up, but he couldn't do it. Making eye contact was just too damn dangerous.

He shook his head, head jerking as he did so.

Hotstreak took the gesture, but as the thick silence fell so heavily that the negative was taken opposite. He knew that lack of eye contact was Richie hiding the truth from him. He rose from his chair, throwing aside his food.

"_You lie_!" he cried, seeing thin shoulders jerk with surprise. "You _lie_. Once you git that chance, you're gonna run off. Cuz you think I'm some sorta _monster_. You think I'm...I'm like _them_! You don't like it here. After all I did, you don't even wanna stay–! You'd go with him, an' fuckin' let all these fucks do you. Rather than me. Whatever I did, I sure did fuck up, didn't I? That's why yer gonna run. Yer plottin' on it. When my back's turned, yer gonna run."

_God, he's so insane_, Richie thought with a genuine flash of surprise as he listened to Hotstreak's mad rant. He couldn't help but recognize hurt and desperation in those words. He wanted to look up, but Hotstreak then kicked his chair away, and stomped off angrily. Feeling safe, Richie looked up from the table, bewildered by the accusation.

Why would Junior come back, anyway? If he did...Richie wasn't going to go with him. Perhaps... perhaps thank him awkwardly. But...he didn't want that life, anymore. He had a Purpose. He had _something_ to do. And being with Junior wasn't one of them.

That next morning, he was busy counting sheep and taking note of the number of gender in both when he heard the sound of a sharp _shfft_! from behind him. He turned to look for the noise, and promptly lost his position atop of the fence. He hit the ground on his shoulders, giving a startled cry as a wooden _tonk_! caught his ears. As his legs fell over head, and he rolled onto his backside, he heard Hotstreak scream something. A glance up the post revealed an arrow embedded deep into the word. He had to marvel at that for a few moments, at his 'luck' that had him escaping certain death by...clumsiness? He certainly had a lot of clumsy luck, nowadays.

Then there was gunfire–entirely startled, Richie was scrambling to his feet, sheep brawling with panic as they leapt and darted about the pen with frantic efforts.

Wholly confused, but recognizing a gunfight, Richie darted off toward the barn. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that several forms were coming up on horseback toward them–more were coming in from the field on the right. All of them were packing guns, bows and arrows tossed aside in favor of more upfront weaponry.

_Indians_! he realized with a panicked start. He had to hesitate–he knew some by face. He stopped running. He wondered how he was going to get their attention, to explain when a couple of them flew off their horses with pained screams. They were shooting at them, and Hotstreak was returning fire. In the midst of the fray, Richie didn't want to die–his Purpose was far more valuable then dying by vindictive motives.

But at the same time, he didn't want them to die because of a misunderstanding. As he was debating this, bullets whizzed by his form.

At that moment, his attitude changed. They wouldn't listen to any explanations; they wanted _revenge_. They wanted their deaths in exchange for the murders of their families.

Frankly, if they were willing to die for their revenge, then he had no problem with fighting for his own life. Fuck it if they wouldn't listen.

Resolved, he switched direction to the house, where the other guns were kept. He was still amazed at how he seemed invincible, bullets whizzing by him with their trailing heat and explosive power. He ran atop of the porch, Hotstreak covering him as animals squealed and men shouted fiercely. Richie hurried into the house, made way for the small arsenal they had stock piled, and quickly loaded a couple of rifles. He tossed an ammunition bag over one shoulder and took position near one of the windows as Hotstreak made his way into the house.

Without waiting for any plan, Richie began firing back at the men. He caught a couple in surprise, but the others were retreating for cover near the barn.

Reloading, panting heavily over coursing adrenaline and surprise, Hotstreak looked over at him. He himself was amazed at how Richie seemed to defy death so easily. He'd seen the Indian shoot that arrow–it was set to hit Richie directly in the back. Yet...yet, before his amazed eyes, he'd seen Richie fall from the fence _just like that_. No reasonable explanation. Just...he just _fell_!

He set that marvel aside and made his way to the other window, crouching as bullets lodged into the wood of the frame, into the door.

"They're lighting torches!" Richie announced calmly from his position, firing almost casually from his window. A pained scream told Hotstreak that he was on target–he gaped at him for a moment, then looked out to see if this was true. Indeed, a couple of them had lit torches, and a few of them were hastily wrapping flammable bundles onto their arrows.

He busted out the glass of his window, and fired, return fire making him duck quickly. He changed position, then headed upstairs, figuring that Richie could cover the bottom just fine.

As he made his way into the bedroom that faced the barn, he busted out the glass there, and began firing. He hit one of the men that were set to fire a flaming arrow, but the other two released their shots. With alarming accuracy, and almost failing speed, the arrows hit the porch. They were going to loose their home if they didn't take the Indians down.

Hotstreak felt bad for it, but he was fitted with survival mode–he didn't hesitate or question, or regret. He'd do that later when he was safe; for now, he was going to kill or be killed. He didn't have time to think about any other thing.

More arrows were fitted with flame, and one of the bolder Indians had his horse charging the house. A sure shot from the rifle downstairs had the man flipping backward from his mount, the torch falling harmlessly into the dirt. The others began shooting their flaming arrows, and another sure shot had one of them falling with a startled scream as his chest exploded. Rising smoke told Hotstreak that their house had caught the flame–he wished for a sudden explosion of rain as he fired at the group taking cover near the barn.

Richie could see the flames starting to catch along the porch and the support poles. With an anxious chewing of his lip, he looked over at the dinner table–where all his handwritten plans lay. The stacks were very valuable–much more so than the man's life upstairs. He lowered his rifle and hurried over to the table, gathering them all and at the same time looking for something to put them in. He thought of the water bucket sitting nearby in the kitchen, but what was more important was gathering those plans and putting them in a safe place.

Hotstreak managed to lay down enough fire to stop the Indians from shooting their arrows again–but he was running out of ammo. He cursed his incompetence in that factor, and left his position to head for their small supply. He didn't hear any gunfire from the bottom, and wondered with fearful panic if Richie had been hit.

But as he flew downstairs, he saw that the kid was occupied with stuffing all his documents into the pack that had once held his books. Rather than question his actions, Hotstreak picked up the remaining rifles and ammo, and took his old position. More arrows were landing onto the porch, and flame ate quickly at the posts, crawling up the side of the house. He glanced over at the water bucket nearby, and ducked when gunfire ate at the window around him. He looked out, then cursed the fire that began to grow, smoking him away from the window. He picked up all his weaponry and ammo, rushing to the side of the house.

"We're gonna get burnt out!" he shouted, snatching up the fallen ammo bag that Richie had torn off. "There's only seven of them left!"

Richie paid no attention to it–he merely frowned at the smearing of ink on one page. Then he glanced over to see smoke curling into the house, flames licking at wood. He threw the pack on, racing into the kitchen. He grabbed the water bucket, kicked the door open, and tossed the contents onto the fire. Bullets flew all around him.

He raced inside, Hotstreak looking back at him in shock. He raced over to grab him, pulling at him. Through the open door, he fired without real aim with his reloaded six shooter, managing to hit one of them square in the face. Richie ignored him, recovering from the movement to pour more water into the bucket from the supply that was kept for washing purposes.

The battle lasted in this fashion–by the time Hotstreak managed to take out the last of their attackers, night had fallen. The fire was out, but the porch was badly ruined. It would have to be repaired immediately. The bodies outside would have to wait until morning–really, Hotstreak didn't want to chance an encounter with those Things, not when they were low on ammo for the moment. Now that they had a break...he felt his face harden into that of intense weariness and sadness. He'd known those men, too.

He'd known their purpose in their attack, but...he couldn't die. Not by them.

He...he had a Purpose of his own...He looked over at Richie, who was frowning in concentration as he checked over his precious papers in the pack he'd kept safe.

**010101010110**

That same night, Richie lay awake, thinking over the attack. While he _did_ start to feel bad about having to kill people he'd known–the kindest people thus far–he had to admit that his survival was more important than theirs. It was much too suspicious that he hadn't yet died throughout the abhorrences he'd survived, and the fact that the dreams had come to him about the creatures, that so many questions burned at him with the same effect as physical hunger–! He was meant for something.

But...but _what_?

He heard the telltale creak of the Things. Brow scrunching, he sat up in bed, exhaling heavily in the darkness. Looking over at the window, image of those red eyes still burning in his memory, he thought of the questions that hadn't been answered. The fact that these Things wanted his death specifically made him more convinced that he was needed...

But...for _what_?

Shifting in the room down the hall made him wonder just how much Hotstreak knew. From all that that man shared with him verbally, his 'luck' was questionable as well. Did they both have some shared Purpose? Were they meant to find each other? Was...was Hotstreak's obsession with him meant for that Purpose?

He frowned over at the window once he heard the telltale scratch of a Thing that let him know it was watching him.

Richie stared over at the window, a little startled by the slow blink of red. He couldn't tell which one was there. At the heavy thumps from the back, where the fire had burned, Richie jumped. He heard the annoyed and tired grumbling of Hotstreak as he rose from his bed; the telltale jangle of metal, and the scruff of his boots.

Richie watched his shadow pass outside his door, hearing his quiet cursing about everything in general as he went to investigate the noise.

He then looked back at the pair of red at the window.

_Come outside_, it said within his mind. Red burned into his mind as he found himself unable to look away, hearing the First's scratchy tone in his thoughts. Leaving him feeling a little...crowded. _Come outside...come out. I'll answer all your questions. I'll tell you all you want to know. I know you think about it...I can hear your thoughts. Let us trade information...I know you_ burn _for what I can reveal to you_...

A desire stronger than anything he'd ever felt raced through him at the promise. Richie's hunger for the questions unanswered rumbled physically through-out his frame. He found himself rising to comply, more upon more questions filling him quickly.

Hotstreak startled him by opening the door, holding a portable lamp that immediately lit up Richie's dark room. That desire was quickly squelched as Richie faced him with an expression of surprise. He realized that pushing his luck wasn't smart–what if it ran out before being able to accomplish his Purpose?

Hotstreak stared at him for several moments with a bewildered expression, then frowned. He looked over at the window, but the pair of eyes were gone. When he looked back, a heavy force hit the window. Glass cracked with a sharp smack of sound. Both were startled by the sound, looking over hastily. Creaking movement up above told them the Thing was moving away. Hotstreak looked back at Richie, who twiddled his thumbs nervously as he waited for whatever it was the redhead wanted.

Silence grew thick, the pounding on wood commencing all over again.

Hotstreak looked back at Richie.

"We need ta repair the porch," he said quietly.

Richie studied him with a small frown. Those burning questions persisted as he wondered about the Thing's apparent fear of Hotstreak.

"...otherwise, they can make their way in. They already dug into the basement. Chewed right through the wood. It ain't protected by this stuff." Hotstreak wiped his nose, then fiddled with his gunbelt. He was trying to stop thinking about how adorable Richie looked as he stood there, hair askew and stupid flannel nightgown overtaking his frame. "They kin actually bring the house down. Ain't nothin' we can do, then."

Richie nodded, still frowning. Hotstreak turned to leave, but Richie asked quickly, "Can you tell me how this all started?"

Hotstreak frowned at him, troubled by remembering the train robbery gone awry. He didn't see how important it was for Richie to know. Richie already thought badly of him–what if it was all made worse by admitting his involvement?

"No," he muttered, leaving the room.

Look how Virgil reacted with his tale. How everyone else reacted to hearing what he'd inadvertently done! Why would he want to earn more of Richie's hate?

Richie stood still for a few moments, then turned wholly furious at the denial. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, "You owe me that! After all you've done to me, you could at least give me that!"

He heard Hotstreak's heavy footfalls stop suddenly out in the hall. He immediately regretted the outburst. He feared what Hotstreak would do now, hearing him turn around to walk back to the room. He tensed, swallowing hard, hands fretting uselessly over his flannel nightgown. He then turned hastily to flip the bedcovers over, avoiding Hotstreak's eyes as he walked back into the room.

"I '_owe_' you?" Hotstreak repeated slowly, and Richie felt ice prickle his skin, turning his blood cold. He avoided looking at him, fiddling with the covers and wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. "I 'owe' you...after all I've done for you, I _owe_ you?"

Richie swallowed audibly. His knuckles turned white as his fingers fisted in the blankets. Anger warmed him, and it was all he could do to stay silent.

"I don't wanna be mean, man," Hotstreak said, with a pleading gesture. His hands flitted with nervousness and a sort of helpless vulnerability through his matted hair. "But...but I don't think you need ta know that. That's...that's a lotta shit I don't wanna talk about."

Richie's eyes narrowed. He still didn't look at him. "But don't I deserve to know?" he asked tightly. "I can't understand if–"

"It's not any o' your business! Ain't nothin' you can do wit' it, anyway!" Hotstreak exclaimed, bewildered as to why Richie wanted to know that when they were the only two living souls out in the middle of no where.

"_I deserve to know_!" Richie argued, voice rising–almost a childish whine.

"You don't either!" Hotstreak snapped, growing tired of the argument. He was exhausted from a battle and a hard day's work. He just wanted to sleep. "Ain't nothin' important about it! Ain't nothin' you can do about it, either! I don't wanna talk about that shit all th' damn time!"

"But I need to know!" Richie protested, gesturing heatedly. "I _need_ to know! It's...it's something that I just _have_ to know!"

Hotstreak let his head drop back in impatient exasperation. He waved an arm around, as if dissipating that argument. As he turned to head out into the hallway, he said with aggravation, "You don't need to know! It ain't anything of yer business!"

Richie gave a frustrated noise. He _had_ to make him understand that it was–! He needed to know, in the very same way one needed to eat and breathe! It burned him then, knowing that Hotstreak was part of that key origin that would give him more insight into the situation. And Hotstreak kept his control and his possession over him by holding that information away from him. Dangling it there in front of him, and making him run exhaustively in his efforts in trying to possess it.

I _can tell you_, came that voice again. It was further away–the Thing hidden somewhere safe. Richie was still bewildered as to why it wouldn't show itself when Hotstreak was around. _He'll keep that information for himself...knowing that you need it. Just as he denies your freedom, he'll deny your need for knowledge_.

Fury ignited Richie's veins. An uncharacteristic anger had him grinding his teeth as he heard Hotstreak walk off into his room down the hall.

_Knowing that you want to know, he'll flaunt that knowledge continually. Making you beg, plead and cry for it. Do you want to continue being that sort of helpless bitch? That helpless love slave? He'll hold that information right over your head and continue to make you do the things you hate_, the voice continued, smoothly manipulating him.

"But he's not that important!" he growled angrily, unable to communicate in the same sense as the Thing. "This is all...just...some sense of control that he wants over me!"

_Exactly_! The Thing cried in exaltation. _But I can tell you what you want to know. Just...come outside...come outside, and we'll talk peaceably_.

That desire to cooperate was stronger than ever. It drove Richie, making everything clash and collide with heavy emotion as he internally debated the pros and cons of that continued persuasion. He had to know! He had to know what Hotstreak's origin was with the entire situation! Why, how, what, when, and who...all of it. And that Thing was promising him information...promising to feed him what he wanted to know.

But...if the Thing wanted to kill him...and it very may could. It could have that power to do so, if it was wanting to kill him. His luck may not hold out for very long against it.

_Nonsense_, it said smoothly–but there was a twinge of impatience in its tone. It was getting fed up with his constant internal debating. _I am merely trying to help–I've noticed the constant unfairness that has been granted to you in such a short period of time. No one–no man–should have to endure what you have_.

Richie thought of the crimes that had been committed against him. He thought he felt that Thing's glee in his recalling of the pain and humiliation.

_Think of it_, it said. _Every night he looks at you...wanting to do more. He wants you to be something precious to hide and use to his own delight. That's why he isolates you. That's why he kills others that try to approach you. He kills them, you know. That's what he does. He's a murderer–he has all that he loves murdered because they do not fulfill him in some way. And when it is time, it'll be_ you _that he'll murder. Because, with your constant need to be treated fairly, he'll tire of your needs and be rid of you. With his unsettled state, do you think he'll do it quickly? There is no one to hear you scream, here. He'll_ make _you suffer. Do you want that, Richard? Do you want to suffer a long death? Filled with pain and humiliation? He has killed others with much less satisfaction, but your death...well...you aren't exactly fulfilling his wishes and needs. He is developing a hatred for you, as well_.

_He'll go against his promises, Richard. One day, you'll push him too far. He'll get too impatient_.

Richie thought of Hotstreak's obvious holding back whenever the blond hadn't done something for him. The way those green eyes would narrow dangerously at him; the obvious repressing of emotion whenever Richie pushed too hard.

'Murderer'? Hadn't...hadn't someone said he'd killed others? Hadn't he confessed to killing someone during a train robbery?

His lips thinned. His head ached.

_Come out_, the Thing encouraged. _Come out, and I'll give you your precious answers_.

"You'll kill me," he whispered, almost impatiently as he debated the choice.

He'll _do it._

"_You_ have a purpose. You want to destroy _my_ Purpose."

_You aren't that important, Richard. You do not have a Purpose! Just questions to answers you'll never receive the longer you continue to deny yourself the opportunity_! The Thing's voice grew low and impatient, growling with frustration. _These questions will drive you insane_!

"I _have_ a Purpose! It is why I've lived for so long! I should have been killed a long time ago! I shouldn't have survived being shot! I shouldn't have survived being on my own! I should have died in the snow! I have a Purpose, and you want to destroy it before I even get to learn what it is!" Richie cried aloud, fists clenched. "You won't destroy my Purpose! Not when I am so close to learning what it is I am destined for!"

_You are destined for NOTHING! You are destined to be a whore the longer you refuse to meet with me!_ The Thing screamed, making him wince, his head pounding with sudden extraordinary pain.

"I am destined for something, and if I have to be a whore to do it, then that's what I have to do! I will learn my Purpose! I will–!"

_He'll kill you! You'll be a bitch for the rest of your life! That's what he wants. To make you useless and fat and lazy. To make you miserable and depressed–you know you are destined for so much more, but you continue to allow this treatment happen! Because you like it, you sinner! You like what's being done to you_! The Thing hissed. _We hear your cries! We hear you beg for more_!

Richie clenched his fists into his hair, then gripped it as the pain worsened. His face reddened as he thought of the pleasure he'd received–remembering his body's wretched, traitorous reaction to Hotstreak's worshiping hands and mouth. How there were moments when he mindlessly begged for more without even realizing it right then.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "You _shut_ up! You know not of my pain! You don't know–!"

_We hear enough to know that you_ like _it, cumslut_!

"SHUT UP! You wretched monstrosities! _Shut up!_ You don't know! You can't possibly ever know that I hate it! I hate it all! I wish they would die! All of them! _Especially_ him! All of those evil, shit-for-brains, fucking bastards! I hate them all!"

_Yes, yes, humans are a wretched lot_, the Thing encouraged. _Why would you want them to live? To continue their evil? Do you think they'd change_?

"...No..."

_They will not! Because they love to dominate, they love to humiliate. Why allow them to live, Richard? Can you not fix this problem? Madelyn sees their evil, and she seeks her revenge. Which is why she destroys–which is why all the humans are being destroyed! Because they fail to listen to their God, they fail to abide by kindness and caring–you will continue to be used, Richard, if you don't do something about it, now_!

Richie thought about it. Thought of the faces he'd seen in Alva's Town that had hurt the workers, had used them mindlessly and laughed at their pain. Had humiliated and bragged about it. How his own customers used him without thoughts of his comforts and pain. How Junior abused him and humiliated him. How this Hotstreak isolated and used him, promising a life of serenity on a farm and denying him what little he'd asked for.

And humans would just keep on doing this–using and hurting and–what was the point of it all? Wasn't it good that they were dying anyway? Stop this endless cycle?

_Yes, Richard_, the Thing cooed softly. _Yes, yes–! They don't deserve this life! They deserve extermination_!

"...Yes...they should...they should all die," he said quietly, thinking of it. "_Everyone_. Start all over–what's the point of it all if man will just keep hurting their fellow neighbors over such inconsequential reasons?"

_That's right_, the Thing encouraged. _That's the way of thinking that Madelyn has adapted_.

Richie thought about it, then his forehead scrunched. "Who's Madelyn?"

The silence was deafening and disconcerting. And he felt the Thing's cringe, that sheepish feeling of revealing too much.

"Who's Madelyn?" he repeated aloud. "Why is she so important? What has she got to do with destroying the human race? Who is she? Where did she come from?"

_COME OUTSIDE, and I'll SHOW you_! The Thing snarled.

And...just as quickly as it had come...his desire to have his questions answered slipped away. He felt angry over being denied what he wanted. His face scrunched into that of frustrated hate.

"You are the very same creature that _he_ is," he growled. "Tempting me with the freedom of being my own person, and then denying it for something that YOU want. You bastard...you rotten, fucking evil bastard...you're all the same! _ALL OF YOU_! _ALL_ THE SAME! ALL OF YOU ARE _ROTTEN, FUCKING EVIL BASTARDS_!"

The Thing hissed, a demonic beast prompted to defend itself primally. _You could have rid yourself of this trouble, human! You could have silenced it all...but you refuse. You continue to hurt yourself, you masochist. Suffer, then. Suffer without any option for salvation_.

And then it was silent–Richie felt that heavy feeling of being all alone, of being left behind. The Thing was gone–perhaps sulking somewhere over his failed attempt to draw him out. In frustration, he clenched his fists, hatred surging through him hotly.

**010101010110**

In the other room, Hotstreak was simply bewildered by the one-sided conversation he'd heard.

_He's losin' it_, he thought with a sort of frightened disbelief. _The kid was finally losin' it! Talking to things that aren't there...bein' all crazy_...

He had an idea that Richie was speaking to those Things. But...but he wasn't exactly sure, especially with Richie spoke with such hot hatred and fury that made him an entirely different person. It was like...listening to a Ghoul. Hearing it plan a savage death, reveling in its delight in torture and pain. Richie spoke of his hate with a vehemence that seemed wholly uncharacteristic for him; as he if were hiding another different personality that was a complete opposite of his submissive, beaten self that Hotstreak was familiar with. Plotting and hating humans, hating _him_–it was all so strong and...sickly..._frightening_.

He slept with his gun in hand and one eye wide open.


	24. These Walls Have Eyes

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Twenty-Three:  
>These Walls Have Eyes<strong>

Junior cautiously eyed the townsfolk as they watched him enter. Many of them didn't know who he was and were just watching him curiously. But some of them had an idea, and were immediately passing the word on that he belonged to Alva. That just made him grind his teeth–as if his father owned him as materialistically as he would with an inanimate object. Dammit, he was flesh-and-blood! Not some damn–!

But he struggled to keep that to himself, feeling a little sheepish in returning. His eyes flit here and there, looking for Virgil and the others. He hoped to find them before his father heard of his return.

That was a hope that wasn't granted as Casey and the others rode up–most of the men Junior had bonded with had grim expressions and looked reluctant to follow with this role. But Casey tipped his hat in greeting. He looked the most regretful.

"Your father wants ta see ya," he said, hand touching his guns briefly. Junior eyed the action with a frown, but he nodded grimly.

The moment he set foot in Alva's office, he instantly knew that things hadn't changed from their last visit. The elder Alva was busy signing off some forms while some weary-looking riders shuffled from boot to boot, anxious to leave.

"You came back," Alva said aloud, glancing at him briefly. He packed the forms away into a leather pack, and the group of riders left the room. Alva faced Junior, folding his hands before him. He studied his son with a grim expression. "The world must have been hard on you while you were away...you're looking older."

"Gee, thanks, dad," Junior said sarcastically, not bothering with removing his hat. "I ain't stayin' long. Just here to find some dudes, an' headin' back out."

"Whatever happened to the shipment of artillery that was supposed to hit my Montana base?" Alva countered. "Those men were counting on that limited supply!"

"Well, I kinda got sidetracked an' all–!"

"This isn't a game, Junior!" Alva snapped, cutting him off. "That whore never did return. Supposing she was just killed tryin' to get back, or she just ran off–I dealt with the situation, but the most painful part of that conflict was losing my men in Montana. They were to guide what survivors they could find and bring them back to Luna."

Junior thought of Jessie–briefly wondered what had happened to woman. Secretly, he hoped that she'd just ran away instead of being killed.

"Oh," he said blankly, shrugging lightly. "Well...that's that, I s'ppose. Nobody misses a whore. Listen, I gotta go, now. I got some business–"

"Whom is it you have business with, Junior?" Alva then interrupted, looking at him suspiciously. "What business do you have in my town?"

"'Your' town?"

"_My_ town," Alva repeated. "I built this from ground up. _I_ provided the protection, and the means for a survival hard-fought. This is _my_ town, and what I say, goes."

"You think yer jus' _God_, don'tcha?" Junior sneered.

"I am not a God," Alva corrected, frowning at him. "I am less than a God. I would not even say that I'm better than most men. I'm just a humble servant, trying to get along..."

"Bullshit, daddy! You think more o' yerself than most gods do!"

"That has always been your opinion, Junior. But I fancy myself a helper–I provide, an' people take, but there are rules to the taking o' my things. Rules are to be made and followed, lest chaos occurs. Everyone here is grateful to find a place where protection is provided from the unrest happening outside our borders. But most people have to work for that protection, and they have to contribute their skills in order to keep this town running. No one sits around doing _nothing_. Unfortunately, that was a large problem that I had with you," Alva added, shifting in his chair to rise. "I had to make sure you were in charge of somethin' that I felt you were able to handle, and you don't even want that, now. If you are to stay in this town, you must contribute your share of assisting–"

"_I ain't stayin_'!" Junior snapped, agitated at that. "I jus' came here to find someone, an' leave. To _Hell_ wit' stayin' here and followin' yer damn rules! You ain't nothin' but a damn dictator, an' I ain't about that."

Alva studied him for a few moments, then busied himself with a cigar he gingerly lifted from a small box nearby. As he cut the end and struck a match, he gave his son a critical eye. "Seems to me, Junior, that you're trying to prove some point. What is it, now? Honestly, sometimes I have to assure myself that your mother provided me with a son rather than a daughter. With your acts of rebellion and your accusations that just border on 'silly'–"

"Now yer callin' me a 'girl'?" Junior cried, utterly insulted. "_Jesus_, daddy! I didn't come out here just ta get all insulted by you! I just came here to get someone, an' get out–!"

"You fell for one of the whores, son? That always happens. You can't make a whore into some housewife..."

"I didn't–! I ain't–! That ain't–just shut up, you old fart! I don't haveta discuss anythin' with you, nor do I have to share my personal business wit' you. I ain't plannin' on stayin' very long–an' I really really don't intend on returning–!"

"You said that last time, and look where you are now," Alva commanded, gesturing at him. One side of his nose wrinkled. "Smells like you've been out there for days. Doin' _what_? What's so important out there that you have to interrupt my business for somethin' of your own? I reckon yer up to somethin' that you got drilled into your silly head into thinking that you're better than me..."

Junior rolled his eyes, heaving an impatient sigh. "Man, you an' your ideas...yer gettin' old, old man."

"Then what is it?" Alva barked. "What did you come here for, if it ain't ta stay?"

"...It really ain't any of yer business." Junior then smirked at him. "I'll just be leavin', now."

"It _is_ my business, if it concerns one of my townsfolk..."

"Geez, lissen to you! 'My', mine, me, me, MY! It ain't none o' yer business!"

"On the contrary...if it happens to threaten my town, or one of my valuable workers, it will be _my_ business," Alva said, sidestepping his desk. He dashed ashes into a tray nearby. "I'll not have you stealing away with one of my workers based on some silly, drunken idea you've gotten into your head, Junior. You are to leave them alone. It's not worth their loss for your incompetence."

Gaping, Junior stared at him. Then he angrily whirled, stomping out of the room. Alva scowled, looking at the two men that were posted just inside the door. With nods, they followed after the raging young man at a careful distance.

"Fuckin' piece o' shit asshole thinks he can control _me_?" _Junior_ was muttering to himself as he strode out from the door, nearly knocking people aside in his rage.

He turned, looking up at the second floor window above the balcony–where Alva's office was. "You think you can control me, you piece of shit old man? Hah! You ain't nothin'! You'll be wishin' you'd listened to me better, you damn shit eater!"

Amid all the hushed whispering as people paused in their actions to hear him shout angrily at the house, Junior turned and made his way toward his horse, patiently waiting nearby. Grumbling to himself, he untied the mare and climbed into the saddle.

" I'll show him, that piece of shit turd ball," he muttered, guiding the horse around. He noticed the two men following by foot, subtly notifying others to keep him in sight. Narrowing his eyes, he frowned at this, but then he turned and began looking for those familiar faces in the crowd. Seeing as he couldn't find them visually, he took a deep breath and began bellowing Virgil's and Adam's names at the top of his lungs.

Not at all shy, Junior guided his horse through the main road, Alva's men growing agitated the more he shouted for the pair of men.

"Hey, man," Casey interrupted, arriving on horseback. Junior scowled at him, their horses nearly colliding as Casey maneuvered into his. "What's goin' on? Why you yellin'?"

"It ain't about you, Casey. Just stay outta my way. _HAWKINS_! _EVANS_!"

"It is about me, if yer daddy's tellin' me to keep an eye on ya!"

"You gonna lissen to my daddy yer entire life?"

"He...he kinda pays me," Casey admitted sheepishly, using his horse to subtly push Junior's toward one of the roads leading out of town. "Like he always has."

"An' you gonna lissen to that windbag? He gonna fuck you all over, Casey! He's just gatherin' ya'll for a fuckin' slaughter!" Junior shouted angrily, trying to control his horse. "He's usin' ya, and he's gonna just...it's all gonna fall down. You just see! You hear that?"

He was then shouting at those that were gathered around, listening to them fight. "Alva's gonna ruin you all! He's just makin' sure ya'll are in one place, so they can get ya'll without anymo' trouble! You think you all safe? He just makin' you think that way!"

Amid all the frenzied words and panicked expressions, Junior gave a satisfied smirk at the suspicion that was now rising up in the townsfolk. Casey was waving at more men to join him, and they began leading Junior out of town.

He gave the older cowboy a frown. "Why you gotta listen to him? He's just gonna fuck you over, Casey!"

Casey shrugged, but looked wholly uncomfortable as he lead his former friend toward the outer limits of town. Just as Junior was going to leave, he saw Virgil hurrying over on horseback, looking as if he'd just left some sort of mill.

Relief flooded his expression, and he used his mare to shove aside Casey for a moment. "Virgil! Virgil, I been lookin' for ya! I got ya some news, Hawkins. That friend you been lookin' for? I know where he's at!"

Virgil wiped his forehead, and shook his dreads. He was working long hours in the saw mill in the northern end of the town limits, and was just surprised to hear that Junior was looking for him. He had to see what the man wanted, despite his feelings against the younger Alva.

Despite his exhaustion and puzzlement, he managed to look pleasantly curious. "Huh? Who?"

"That–that Hotstreak you been talkin' 'bout!"

"Franc–Hotstreak? _Really_? You know where he's at?" Virgil asked excitedly. "This ain't no game?"

"_No_!" Junior frowned at the others that were starting to get a little impatient with him still lingering about. "Meet me at the junction, Hawkins. I'll give you more information. Just...just hurry!"

Virgil blinked in confusion as Casey managed to use his horse to prod Junior's into a hurried walk. Junior looked back to see Virgil still staring after him with some hesitation.

"It'll be real easy, Hawkins!" he shouted, pushing his horse into a run. "He ain't goin' anywhere! But it prolly won't last long!"

Virgil gave him an uncertain look as his horse shuffled nervously, Alva's men working their way around him. Subtly coaxing him to move back into town. With one last look at Junior's rapidly disappearing form, Virgil turned his mount back into town, touching his horse's sides with his heels.

He thought of Junior's hurried request–wondered with rising anxiety about the truth to the younger Alva's words. He really wanted to see his friend, again. To know that he was okay and alive–!

The more Virgil wondered about it, the more he wanted to see truth to Junior's words.

"Stay here, darkie," Casey warned him, throwing him a threatening look. Virgil scowled at the word, watching Alva's men move back into the town, resuming their positions throughout the area. "You ain't got no business wit' him! He all got insane from bein' alone fer too long!"

Virgil frowned, but didn't stop as he headed back to the house that he shared with Adam and Randy.

**010101010110**

"So, you really think that man is tellin' the truth?" Adam asked in disbelief. He and Randy were watching Virgil pack hastily, the younger Hawkins telling them what he'd encountered in town.

"Why wouldn't he?" Virgil asked. He sighed, straightening. He glanced outside at Sparky, who was tied to lead the simple buckboard the Adam owned outside. He wondered how he was going to sneak and hide his saddle within the space provided without drawing too much attention to himself. "Yeah...I mean, he _would_–he knew we had a thing against him. But...would he really retaliate?"

"Ain't got nothin' to lose," Randy commented. "Heard he's been on his own. Heard he was the one that murdered that whore..."

"_Jessie_," Virgil stressed pointedly, "wanted a chance to escape. She got it, an' she left."

"You and her close?"

"A few times," Virgil grinned. He shrugged again. "I doubt Junior kilt her, anyway. Besides... why would he lie about seein' Hotstreak?"

"Hotstreak's _gone_, Virgil! Ain't no one heard of him, or seen him since Runner's Valley!" Adam exclaimed. "He's gone! If we split up, Sharon might miss us–!"

Virgil frowned, but he looked at Adam with a determined look. "Stay here, then. I'll go alone."

"With _that_ lunatic? Virgil, you don't know if he's tellin' the truth or not! He knows we didn't like 'im! He prolly just makin' up stories to get ya alone!"

"I'll just have to risk it, Adam. I mean...this is _Hotstreak_ we're talkin' about! What if he is alive? What if...what if he's waitin' for me to go out there? I can't just...I can't just go on knowin' that there's a lead an' I ain't takin' it!"

"SHARON is your sister! Sharon is prolly gonna show up tomorrow, an' you be gone, Virgil! Just stay here! Don't go out there with him!" Adam argued. "Don't do it! You might just be throwin' your life away makin' this dumb decision!"

"I have to try, Adam." Virgil hefted up his pack. He then frowned, unpacking several things and packing them into individual bags. After he was done, it looked like a pile of junk and garbage. "I'm just gonna try it. I mean...even if it turns out that Junior's lyin'...I promise you, I'll make it back."

Adam rolled his eyes, hands on his hips as he and Randy followed him toward the back door. Since Alva had been notified of Junior's meeting with Virgil, there had been some men posted about, watching them. Virgil walked out, cheerfully waving at Mitch, who was standing nearby. Tossing all the bags into Adam's buckboard, he clapped Adam on the shoulder and walked back inside. Freezing, Adam stared at the men that were watching them closely. Randy turned and followed Virgil back inside while Adam realized that Virgil intended to make him assist him out of Luna.

"You sure this is somethin' you wanna follow through wit', man?" Randy asked him again. "I mean...what if it all be a big ole trick?"

"I'm gonna make it! Junior's been a pampered playboy all his life–he ain't got good hands when it comes to guns, an' 'sides...the man's obvious when he's all tryin' to be tricky. You know that."

"...What if...what if Hotstreak don't wanna come back? Wherever he is? Might he be shacked up with some woman, Virgil, an' intendin' to settle!"

"Then I'll check it out, we'll make friends, an' I'll be back," Virgil reassured him. "But...I can't just...let this go. What if he's alive, an' he's out there, an'...he's waitin' for me? I mean...forget for a moment that I have no idea how Junior knows him or found him–"

"Tha's another thing, Virgil–!"

"I'm just gonna check it out! If I ain't back by tomorrow mornin'...then it means I'm off to see Hotstreak, or...I'm zombie-bait. Either way, I'll be back ta let ya'll know."

Randy frowned, visibly confused by Virgil's declaration.

He then lifted an eyebrow as Virgil laid himself on the floor, at the edge of a worn Navajo rug. Virgil held the end, and signaled at him to start rolling him within the material. Randy rolled his eyes as Adam came back in. He immediately saw what Virgil meant.

He sighed heavily. "'M thinkin' this is all wrong, Virgil. It could all be a trick."

"But I gotta find out, Adam. I haveta! What if Hotstreak needs help?" Virgil tugged on the end, signaling for them to start rolling. Randy and Adam looked at each other with exasperation, but both men complied. Rolling Virgil within the material of the rug, Adam sighed again.

"I don't like it, man. Not at all."

"You don't have to," Virgil said, grunting as he rolled along. He shifted for a better breathing position as the weight of the material and the combined feeling of claustrophobia began setting in. "'M just gonna check...nothin' wrong wit' it. All Junior wanted was fer me ta meet him at the junction."

"What if you ain't comin' back?" Adam asked as both he and Randy hefted the man encased within the rug up.

"Then I'll let ya know. Hurry up, man. I feel like I'm suffocatin', here!"

Both Adam and Randy exchanged hesitant glances, but they continued on. Loading the rug along with the other 'garbage', Randy disappeared back into the house and Adam signaled that he was heading for the waste collection site that Alva had designated for the townsfolks' site of 'junk'. The men nodded him off, and glanced toward the house.

Adam had to shake his head as he urged the horses forward, hearing Virgil muffle a sneeze within the encasement.

**010101010110**

Junior was starting to think that Virgil wasn't going to make it, and was feeling desperate enough to come up with a murdering scheme to get Hotstreak permanently out of the picture when he heard the sound of an approaching horse. He was waiting at the worn junction that would take him north to Nebraska, and west to Wyoming. Night had fallen, and, too paranoid in attracting creatures he'd rather just avoid than engage into battle with, he'd opted for the light of the moon.

Still, with how dark the world was with the constant cloud cover and the silence of natural living things, it was rather spooky standing out in the darkness all alone.

He looked up to see Virgil and his horse hurrying over, Virgil looking skeptical as he approached Junior. Both man and rider were hard to see–Sparky was dark, and his owner wore dark clothing. Junior had to squint to discern them through the darkness.

Still, despite it all, Junior's relief was obvious and Virgil was taken back by the heavily grateful expression on the younger Alva's face.

"You ain't followed?" Junior then asked suspiciously, glancing out in the darkened distance. He heard nothing and saw nothing, but he wouldn't count out his father's suspicions on having either him followed, or Virgil trailed. "You sure none o' them followed?"

"Yeah," Virgil answered, a little skeptical of Junior's behavior.

The man had gotten leaner since the last they'd seen each other, and a little more world-weary. There was also a confidence there in Junior's frame and expression that hadn't been there before–he had to wonder what it had taken for the younger Alva to grow up.

He had to wonder if that was a good or bad thing.

"No one suspected I left. Anyway, 'bout Hotstreak–"

"He's got a settlement down in Wyoming–" Junior started, urging his mare off into that direction, Virgil following hastily.

"'_Wyoming_'? I thought they was headin' north!"

"I didn't exactly sit down an' have tea wit' him, Hawkins! It was more of...well...a very _brief_ visit. But he's there. An' he's settlin'."

"Oh, ho ho hoho! That dawg!" Virgil exclaimed with a sort of amused bark of laughter. "Wonder who it is he managed to steal off with? She hot? Think I can steal her away an' change her mind?"

At this, Junior had to bark his own laugh.

"If'n you like men, you dork," he muttered to himself.

"Huh?"

"Never mind that. Jus'...he's been wonderin' 'bout you. Kinda wonderin' if yer alive, too. Said I knew you, said I knew where you live. He weren't able to leave, so he sent me ta get ya."

"This ain't some sorta trick is it?" Virgil asked cautiously. It was a little hard trying to picture his friend as the type to 'settle' down. Not with his rowdy, womanizing ways. Maybe all this chaos and strife had given him reason otherwise to drop those bad behaviors and prompt him to grow up. Still, even then, he had to see how Hotstreak was doing. He had to see if things were okay.

"No!" Junior answered, frowning at him. "Why would I do that? Ya'll helped me...can't I just return a favor?"

Virgil gave him a skeptical look. "Forgive me fer sayin', but...you ain't exactly man of the year, Alva."

"Yeah, well...things change, eh?" Junior continued frowning at him, but he was more excited in that once he had Richie...he would show Alva. His father would have it coming to him. He would _have_ to recognize that his son had the power in the brain of this kid–but at the same time, he began wondering if his father had any damning contracts that would retain his rights over the kid. After all, Alva had been the one to negotiate the deal with Richie's parents...

Even then, there wasn't a set law out here that would keep Alva's ownership over the boy! Humans weren't meant to be owned!

...Just...borrowed, for a bit.

**010101010110**

The pair had met with two more battles with Indians–both managed to win the battles by impossible odds. The second battle had just come to a wind-down; both men agreeing that the bodies would be dealt with in the morning, as the Things continued to lurk about.

After washing himself in cold water and redressing in the flannel nightgown, Richie found himself lost in thoughts–unable to sleep yet again. So many things burned in his mind–the Things, the creatures, his Purpose, his suicidal thoughts, his yearning for his parents and so many questions that he didn't have any answers to–that he found himself unable to sleep most nights. He felt like he were living in a fog–responding to things that were only life-threatening.

Hotstreak had retired to his room–the man hadn't bothered with visiting him, anymore. More rather, it seemed as if the redhead were just trying to avoid him. While Richie wouldn't complain, the isolation of the area and for the fact that the man still wouldn't reveal his complete past left him yearning in confusion for his company.

Just to talk...that was all. Just talk. Like...like normal human beings.

The candle had just burnt out–he kept forgetting to replace the things when they finally died out–when Richie saw them. He was sitting in the rocking chair, bundled in blankets–rocking with a sense for a need for comfort and something to occupy himself with when he saw the flit of movement along the floorboards. He stilled his movement for a moment, unsure if he'd seen right; then began rocking again when he saw them.

Footprints–small, delicate, half-formed–walking along the shadows and in the thin layer of dust that had collected on the floor with the barest whisper of sound. He imagined them belonging to a child–maybe a very small woman. He watched them appear with a sort of hesitant action–as if the person were walking to be quiet, to avoid whichever horror they happened to want to avoid. He felt every one of his hairs stand on end–the room grew cold. There was a heavy shiver of fear that shot through his body, and his rocking action stopped.

Terror shot through his heart, and as he wondered why the reaction to the ghost was so delayed, the footprints stopped appearing. There was a heavy filter of sound in the room, but it was greatly reduced to something that he could hear only if he'd stopped his own breathing–the quiet exhalations of a living being had his skin prickling with bone-deep fear that had his heart seemingly stopping in mid-beat.

The silence of the night, combined with the darkness, made the whole situation scary.

He felt eyes on him, then. He knew they didn't belong to the Things, but to the _thing_ in his room. He felt as if he were being examined, his soul searched. Though he couldn't see the ghost, he could very well feel it as if there was a living being in there with him.

The exhalations stopped suddenly–Richie heard the heavy buzz of silence, the careful skittering of the Things walking about outside. His eyes shot from side to side, and he listened to the instinct of curling up in himself, pulling the blankets close around him. His breathing grew suddenly troubled, and he had the fleeting instinct to just _flee_ the room. Terror had him rooted still, and his eyes continued to flit around the room even as a cold-sweat beaded upon his brow.

He caught sight of movement, eyes flitting up to a point up on the ceiling to see a human face emerging from the shadows. He didn't stick around to see the features, nor determine the sex.

An inhuman shriek shattered the silence, and he screamed involuntarily, shooting out from the rocking chair and hurtling across the room. The door slammed shut before he could reach it, and that unGodly shriek rang out again. The air turned colder than before, his breath visible as he panted with heavily rising fear. Muslin-like color floated across the room, away from the rocking chair–it was all so tangible to him, that he imagined if he reached out to touch it, it would feel like spiderwebs. But he didn't want to touch it, and the thing–whatever it was–was scaring him.

A shrill sound of inhalation had him fumbling with the doorknob, and the thing screamed again–a drawn out woman's shriek of misery and terror that had his blood running cold and his breath pausing in his throat. He frantically raced out of his room with his own shout of terror, feeling breath upon the back of his neck. The feel of cold fingers on his shoulders and fingernails digging into the muscle had him stopping within the middle of the hall. Arms curled around him then, into an embrace of capture that left him feeling almost powerless and enclosed.

With violent movements, he jerked out of capture and ran blindly to Hotstreak's room. Doors opened and shut simultaneously, and he couldn't understand why the man hadn't awakened, yet. Didn't he hear all the noise?

He flung the door open and raced into his room, practically leaping atop of his bed.

He froze as he realized that Hotstreak was still asleep–almost dead in appearance as he breathed quietly, laying on his side with a gun peeking out from underneath his pillow. Richie stared at him in silence, feeling the room grew cold as that thing entered the doorway. He looked over with a sense of foreboding submission–taking in the shape of a man with broad shoulders. He couldn't see the face but he knew–just knew–that it was twisted with maniacal intent.

The fear intensified, and he couldn't think–for the life of him, he couldn't think!–and he just stared at the silhouette outlined by the faint glow of his candlelight within Hotstreak's room.

"_Where you goin'?_" the ghost asked.

The voice was low and scratchy–muffled, as if speaking from behind some invisible hand. But the words drilled fear into Richie's heart, and he could only sink himself closer to Hotstreak, as if putting the big man in between them would keep the ghost from getting to him. The man didn't inch from the doorway–he seemed to study Richie intently, and the blond quaked violently behind Hotstreak, his fingernails digging into the man's biceps. His nose was smashed against Hotstreak's arm, but he could still see the puffs of cold as he exhaled.

"_Can't get far. Not from us. Better just com'n out, now. Ya' hear? Just com'n out!_"

Richie felt a terrified whine leave his throat as the man's voice raise with impatient frenzy–rising with each command. Finally, a shadow arm waved about with obvious frustration.

"_Just com'n OUT!_" he screamed.

Why wasn't Hotstreak waking up? What was wrong with him? How could he not hear that man? How could he not hear or feel Richie freaking out behind him?

Richie shook him, his arm locked with the sensation of his limb on the verge of falling asleep. It then felt like his entire body was feeling that way. As if all the blood were leaving him, or if his muscles were losing their ability to function with his brain's commands. He couldn't make a sound, then–throat locked tight. It was as if someone was working him from the inside–shutting him down despite his resistance.

The man walked into the room–blending in with the shadows with his silent movements.

Richie's mind raced frantically with fear as he realized no command would get his limbs to move. His breathing was quick and short–his mind felt as if it were going to shut down. His eyes were wide, unblinking as that man's silhouette pulled out from the shadow to look down at him. As if he were standing next to it, bending from the waist to peer into Richie's face. Utter fear had his flannel nightgown soaked around the neck and the armpits.

"_Hello_," the man spoke softly–for a brief instant, Richie smelt coffee and cigarettes. He couldn't see his features–just utter blackness. "_I found you. Com'n out. Nice an' easy. Make no trouble for us._"

Richie wanted to talk–he wanted to move–but nothing worked. He felt arms slip underneath him, and he was lifted from the bed. His breathing grew frantic as he felt his limbs dangle uselessly over the strong hold. He smelt bad body odor and cigarettes–and he heard the heavy _thromp_ of boots as the man carried him away from the bed as if he were nothing. Terror had Richie frantic to make any sort of noise, to move any which way–but his whines never left his throat. Everything felt so slack–! So useless–! But his eyes flit over to the still sleeping Hotstreak–quietly resting as Richie was spirited away from his room.

_Where was his luck? What was going to happen? Why didn't Hotstreak wake up–? Where were they taking him? What was going to happen to him?_ His mind was running through all these questions with utter terror as he watched the hallway disappear behind him; each step of the stairway made his head bounce lightly, and at one point, his toes scraped along the banister. He numbly agonized over his height as the man strode toward the front door, carrying him o-so-easily; and then they were outside, where the cold of the night stole his breath.

He couldn't swallow, nor could he even think to breathe as the man stopped in the middle of the porch.

The First's face, with its neon pink tattoos, appeared first in his vision, bangles ringing out musically. Those red eyes flared for a moment, and a sinister smile crossed its lips. The Fourth's snicker was audible nearby, and the Seventh's frightening visage appeared over the head of the man holding him.

Richie stared at them in fear, still locked with paralyzation.

"_That wasn't so hard!_" the man announced. "_Old biddy was nothin'. Can't stop a real man from doin' his job._"

The First bared its teeth, and Richie felt those supportive arms drop him suddenly. He hit the porch with a painful crack, and it felt as if his body came alive in that instant. The man disappeared as the Fourth's weapons passed through it–his scream of agony seemed to echo loudly throughout the night as Richie froze, facing the trio that he'd mainly only heard.

The First crouched, Richie's eyes blindly taking in the pierced nipples, the tattoos–the Fourth's odd appearance with its hooded head, and its cloven feet. Thoughts of the devil crossed his mind at that point, but the Fourth wasn't in charge, obviously.

Still, their appearances burned their way into his memory, and despite his fear–he was already documenting their weaknesses and strengths, their haphazard appearances that seemed randomly taken from various creatures. If only he were able to focus on that connection, that disassociation of the present to the logical design of productive examination of the trio.

_You are out_, the First said with its mind-talk. _And we have a job to do._

Richie couldn't look away from those red eyes–blinking lazily, the others walking with unsettling humanoid actions as they left the task up to the First. They disappeared with that sickening stench of sulfur, minute flashes lighting the area briefly. He saw this from the corner of his eye, bound by the unspoken power of the First as it faced him with casual expression.

Its arm raised, fingers wrapping around Richie's neck. As his throat was forcibly closed, the grip intensifying as the First proceeded to choke his breath away, it said, _At least you'll be free, huh? Free to no longer please him. Free to battle your own after-life demons. I'm sure you'll have plenty. And I'm sure you'll be pleased with how horrified he'd be, seeing you as a zombie. I'm sure he'll be broken, then. Seeing you. As much as he values you, I'm sure you'd want that satisfaction of knowing he'd never do anything more to you. Am I correct_?

Richie couldn't speak–he wasn't even coherent enough to hear the First's rambling. As much as his body wanted to naturally resist, hands moving up faintly, he really _really_ wanted that death. There was something else that struggled against that need–his Purpose kept running through his scrambled mix of thoughts and memories, of his life passing before his eyes within moments.

His Purpose, his Purpose, his Purpose–he wasn't supposed to go this way. This wasn't supposed to happen–! Not yet–!

Suddenly, the First hissed and whipped away from him, eyes blazing with hate. Hotstreak came bounding out from the house, hollering up a frantic storm. Once he saw the First, he charged blindly toward it, Richie hacking violently on the porch, trying to draw in air. The First snarled like an enraged dog, then disappeared into the shadow with a flit of sound. Sheep called suddenly in panic, and the cattle began to sound out their alarms.

Coherency returning to him, Richie blindly made his way back into the house. He was helped to his feet, cold fingers touching his neck tenderly–comfort and security washed through him with a sense of rightness; a blanket of warmth that made him wholly grateful for the attention.

Hotstreak was panting as he hurried back into the house, slamming the door. Richie looked at him in confusion–wasn't he...? Didn't he...? He looked around himself, but there wasn't anyone there. But...but he was sure that he'd felt someone help him–!

"You okay?" Hotstreak asked in a breathless panic, reaching for him. Richie pulled back automatically, massaging his throat–his eyes searched the windows and the doors for those pair of red. For that ghost that had taken him. "You _okay_? Rich? Oh, _Jesus_, I didn't hear anythin'–! I didn't–I was asleep–! I didn't hear a thing–!"

"How could you _not_?" Richie cried. He felt reduced to the hysteria of a frightened child. Nothing was coherent, nothing made sense. His fright made him thoughtless. He'd almost _died_–! But at the same time, he hated that he hadn't. He was frustrated with the near-miss. "They were _screaming_! I was there–I _came_ to you, and you wouldn't wake up! It's your fault they almost got me!"

"I'm so _sorry_!" Hotstreak apologized with uncharacteristic helplessness. He was an entirely different person at that moment–someone helpless and vulnerable for making a serious mistake.

Richie's feelings of near death left him flustered, confused, emotionally fragile; shakily, he made his way to the nearest table to keep himself standing.

"You _let_ them get to me," he said with a quiver in his voice. "You _let_ them almost kill me."

"I...I was...I didn't...I heard nothin'. Just..." Hotstreak trailed off, trying to explain what had happened. But he had absolutely no memory of waking up–just barging out the doors with both guns and registering the sight of the First choking Richie to death. He'd reacted then, but–but what had happened _before_?

Richie's eyes flitted along the table, recalling the footprints–the frantic screams. The _ghost man_. He was terrified it would come back. Completely ignoring the 'warnings' of sweetgrass and tobacco. If that was possible...if that was possible, _what else_ could slip by? What if it only kept the demons out, and...what if zombies–? They were still surrounded by danger, and that feeling of knowing they were all right and safe flitted right out the window.

He caught his breath, feeling incredibly stressed. Nothing was safe or sacred, anymore! He would never be safe! He'd never be the same, and he'd never be–!

Who could live like this? How could one be sane with all this maddening chaos, with all the lack of answers? He looked up to address Hotstreak on this when his eyes suddenly hit some of the pictures that still hung on the wall.

Looking at the picture of the old couple, his eyes automatically fell on the woman, and his mind fell completely blank. The bliss of an unclouded mind was amazing.

"_Muh_ helped me," he whispered, not feeling as if he made sense. In fact, _nothing_ made sense, anymore. He was very disappointed death failed to meet him, but at the same time–he found no reason to continue sensibly. "Muh was there. _You weren't_."

Hotstreak blinked. Did he hear right...? "_Huh_?"

Richie turned to look at him, accusing expression completely overshadowing all that had been pleasant about his features. At that moment, he looked slightly demonic.

"You must not like me too much, do you? For that to happen?"

Hotstreak hesitated–this...this really didn't sound like the kid he was used to. It seemed as if Richie's voice had curdled just slightly–as if he were a child, sweet-talking with a soft murmur of sound, but adult in its presence of formation.

"I..."

"You _lie_ to me. You say all these things, but you _let_ that thing get to me. Muh helped me better. She made me feel like she cared. You just slept!"

"...I couldn't...I dunno what happened, but...who the hell's 'Muh'?"

"I don't wanna be here anymore! I don't feel safe here, anymore!"

Hotstreak was utterly confused. The way Richie spoke, it was as if...as if he'd forgotten his age. As if he were a child, using a teenager's voice. He stamped his foot to punctuate his point, and his lower lip quivered.

It was...all in all...very _odd_.

Hotstreak shrugged helplessly.

"You don't like me, anymore! I think you _hate_ me. Well, I hate you, too."

"I don't!" he argued, but it was with less conviction than he'd felt. He couldn't look away from the lip that continued quivering childishly. "I mean...I...I don't..."

Golden eyes narrowed. The teenager was back. "So you think that it is all right to take over on another person without their permission?"

Hotstreak felt stabbed. He even rubbed his chest, thinking of that night. "I..."

"_All_ of you think so. _All_ of you think that it is fine and dandy if you just take what you want! I lack control in myself! I can't even decide for myself what it is what I want without having someone TELLING me that I want it!"

Hearing his voice once again reach childish level, Hotstreak began growing very uncomfortable at that point.

"It's not fair," Richie ended in a growl. "I don't like it. I want to be in control of myself, now. _I_ want to be! It's _my_ body! It belongs to me! It's _my_ body–!"

"Um..._calm down_. Mebbe...mebbe go back to bed–!"

"The bad men will get me! _Again_! And Muh can't do that again!"

"...Who the hell is 'Muh'?"

"You _want_ them to get me!" Richie then shouted, voice cracking. He stamped his foot again. "You _want_ them to! You just drag it out–!"

"I do _not_!" Hotstreak cried, horrified at the suggestion. And utterly–utterly–confused at this point. Who the hell was 'Muh'? And why was Richie talking like that? Like...like he was...

Richie frowned. But he studied Hotstreak intently–no longer afraid. Just...just angry. And hateful. Wanting rid of Hotstreak, but at the same time–recognizing his uses.

He crossed his arms. "Prove it."

Hotstreak blinked, then gaped at him. Soundlessly, his mouth worked like a fish's for a few moments, then he stuttered, "_W-what_?"

"Prove you love me, then."

Hotstreak stared at him dumbly.

Pointing outside, Richie said with a sort of sneer, "They'll come into our house and ruin everything. Those demons can't touch you–they run at the sight of you."

"...I...I don't..."

"THEN YOU DON'T LOVE ME, _DO_ YOU?"

"_Holy Christ_," Hotstreak breathed, unable to look away.

The house was filled with silence, and he had to stare at this diminutive male that stood before him–challenging and frightening. A total stranger from the kid he'd met in Alva's Town in what felt like so long ago.

Richie faced him with continued challenge, then pushed away from the table. Not looking away from those wholly confused green orbs, he began walking toward the stairway.

"I don't wanna wake up to evil mean things invading the house while _I_ go to sleep. And I'm sleeping with you, tonight. I don't want you to touch me, but I don't wanna sleep alone. Muh says that's it's bad if I do. They can get me easily. _She_ cares about me–but I don't see _you_ wanting to."

Hotstreak continued to gape at him as he walked up the stairway. He really...really didn't know what to think of Richie, now.

...And who the hell was 'Muh'?

**010101010110**

That next morning, he awoke with that impending feeling something was utterly wrong. Sucking in a breath of surprise, he sat up in bed–Richie's side was empty. Cold. How long had he been out? Why was he sleeping so heavily, lately?

But Hotstreak didn't know what had wakened him, but...it was something odd. Out of place.

He listened to silence, then realized that's what it was–the silence. The animals weren't making their usual array of noises. Kicking his legs off the bed, he was on his feet and armed, racing for the door. He clomped downstairs when the smell hit him–he slapped a hand over his mouth and noise, leaping down the last few steps.

What he saw made him still, gun hand lowering slowly to his side.

The front and back doors were open–blood colored the wooden floorboards. The kitchen table was shoved against the wall, and various furniture was swept aside.

The kitchen counters were a clutter of miscellaneous tools–knives, sharpeners, guns, ammunition; glass canisters, skillets and pots and pans were...they were full.

His face fell blank as he stared at the filled pots and pans–dark liquid oozed inside, and various bloody lumps peered here and there from the rims. He stared at the kitchen counter, smelling the heady copper scent of blood and of body organs. Peering into the largest pot, he realized he was looking at cow brains. There were sheep brains mixed within, and a few coils of retinas.

His throat clogged with impending emotion as he continued his way outside. He stopped dumbly within the doorway, staring at the various dead animals–butchered and maimed–that lay just outside the porch. Some were still alive–dragging useless limbs as they struggled for life and safety. A calf nursed at his mother's teat–but his mother was missing her head. Her two front limbs were butchered clean from her body in obviously violent action.

A Remington lay nearby, shells spilling out carelessly. He heard movement from the barn.

Wholly shocked and numb, Hotstreak picked his way through the insane slaughter, wondering why he hadn't heard a thing. Animals were noisy when they died–guns even noisier.

As he picked his way over the butchered corpses–sheep missing their eyes, cattle missing half their faces, throats slit, stomachs torn open–he came across the corpse of a human. One of the Indians. His chest cavity was split, ribs neatly severed and set aside.

Hotstreak fought the urge to retch, staring almost sightlessly into the exposed organs within. They were obviously looked through, displaced and awkward within the formerly neat cavity. It looked as if whomever–and he knew exactly who–hadn't been interested in replacing things where he'd picked them.

Hotstreak made his way toward the open doors of the barn, and froze at the sight. From the rafters hung at least seven of the Indians–hanging from neatly tied nooses. Some were reanimated with their zombie effects, but they were silent with their uncontrollable protest of treatment and lack of freedom. Necks were elongated by the natural stretch of weight as they hung from the ropes–eyes were bloodied black, drool and blood decorated their chins. Features were swelling horrifically due to pressure and rigor mortis. They almost didn't look human.

Animals corpses were hung in various areas, as well. The whole floor was covered in blood. Innards pooled underneath the hanging bodies. Tools of butchering design lay scattered here and there–as if abandoned for something better.

As he lifted his head, he thought he saw an old woman pass by the back barn door–carrying a lamb. But he was currently in shock–in sickened, disbelieving shock. He didn't register the sight as well as he should have.

An animal screamed in violent reaction to the sound of flesh being rendered by knife–Hotstreak turned to see a lean heifer swing by her back legs from the rafters, her blood shooting violently from the ugly gash in her neck.

Richie watched her twirl with uncontrollable action due to momentum as she lost her life force slowly. His clothes were soaked with blood–his hair was matted with it. He wore a studious expression as the heifer choked on her own blood and thrashed, hooves slashing through the air.

He turned, and looked at Hotstreak with a sort of cheered expression. Hotstreak stared at the heifer as she slowly died.

"Good morning!" Richie said over the cow's strangled noises. He looked as if he were merely dirtying his hands in some garden, or preparing for a long day's work with that expression of determination and thought. Not...not butchering helpless animals. "Did you sleep well? You wouldn't happen to have any idea where the paring knives are, do you? Muh can't remember where she'd put them."

Hotstreak looked at him, then sightlessly looked back at the heifer. How in the world did this ninety-pound kid manage to haul a thousand pound animal onto that rafter?

"Francis?"

The sound of his real name made him start–startling out of his horrified shock and disbelief. He looked sharply at Richie, who frowned at him with that same childish pout he'd had last night.

"_Don't call me that_!" he hissed, making the blond turn affronted. Feeling dizzy and sick, he stumbled out from the barn. Richie followed him, wiping his hands uselessly on his pants.

"Did you see this?" he asked as Hotstreak fought for clean air. Richie pointed at the Indian. "We're all the same! Just our flesh is entirely and wholly different! Same skeletal structures, same organs–look, we all bleed _red_. Why is it that skin and appearance changes in various regions? What makes a black man's skin black? What makes an Indian's skin red? What determines whether or not we're blond, or red, or brunette? Isn't this fascinating? I can look without having to bother with those wretched laws that continues to give universities _old_ cadavers that aren't even interesting to bother with. Same old, same old. It's more fascinating to examine a fresh body rather than one that has been soaked with embalming fluid."

Hotstreak vomited, dry heaving uncontrollably as Richie went on.

"You know, I'd always wondered just how long the intestines were. I stretched out a human's intestines, and those of a sheep's and a heifer in the house, to compare consistencies and textures! Did you know that–oh, this is even more fascinating, come look at this. Sheep will eat just about anything! Look, this one was eating on a book. Some of the pages are intact...I didn't think sheep were scavengers that way, but then again, I don't pay too much attention to animals..."

Hotstreak wiped his mouth, fought for breath. Something at the corner of his eye moved, and he locked eyes with a fear-frenzied lamb that struggled to run–but it was missing all four of its legs. Its eyes were wide and filled with insane panic. It was utterly horrific how it remained alive.

"_I_ killed them all. I mean, we won't need them. We need to leave here, Francis. I don't feel my genius can be used here. I will do some research, and we'll go into town. Muh says that there's a settlement nearby that can use what I have to offer. That's _my_ Purpose. I am to be used for my brain, and not my body. You fools are so totally retarded in that aspect, Francis. I hope you enjoyed what you had, because you are never having it again. I will never give you access to my body. _Never_!" Richie shouted vehemently, stalking off. "No one will EVER touch me again! Not like that! Never without my permission–which I will _never_ give!"

Hotstreak watched him leave, but his brain was so numbed with horror and shock that he didn't really register Richie picking up the abandoned Remington and loading it quickly.

The first shot missed him completely, and made him jerk in action.

"Just as I thought!" Richie barked, with accompanying laughter that was a little too thin and reedy. "You have a Purpose, too! You haven't died yet, and that shot should have killed you! But...but it didn't. And now I wonder what sort of Purpose drives _you_. Was it to make me stronger? To push me into questioning all that is reality? _What_? I think you had the Purpose to make me into what I am, today."

Hotstreak said nothing–Richie's words meant nothing to him, at that moment. They were all the ramblings of a mad-man.

"But _I'm_ in control, now," Richie continued as he picked his way through the corpses. Hotstreak was too numb to move. When the blond spotted the lamb, he stared down at the helpless animal for a few moments. Then his foot raised, his heel slamming into the animal's skull.

But the animal lived, and it suffered terribly as he applied more weight–what weight he had, for his eating habits had changed, lately, and Hotstreak had noticed him getting thinner–into his heel.

"_I'm_ in control! _I_ have _control_ over _myself_, and _I_ have control over things around me!" Richie said, but it felt as if he were speaking to himself. The lamb let out a bleating cry of agony as bone broke under the force of Richie's heel slamming repeatedly into its head. "_Nothing_ will touch me! _No one_ will use me! _No one_, and _nothing_! For I have a Purpose, and I will fulfill my Purpose!"

Hotstreak stared at him. The animal was in horrible agony–he couldn't stand those screams. He shoved Richie away and used his own weight and force the kill it. The bleating screams stopped suddenly.

Richie scowled, then shrugged. He headed back to the barn.

"I have work to do!" he called over his shoulder. "I want to see how the zombies work. Don't touch anything on the counters, okay? Sorry about the animals, I guess you really have nothing to do. Why don't you go...clean the pictures, or something? Do the wash? Maybe wash the back windows of the house? Maybe you can't make a housewife outta a whore, but you can make one out of a cowboy. HAH! That's funny..."

Hotstreak stared after him. Was he...was he dreaming? Having some horrible nightmare? He slowly turned–he was lost. He had no idea what to do, or what to say.

Where to go.

Swallowing hard, he numbly picked his way through the various carcasses and headed into the house.


	25. Your Halo's Slipping Down

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

A/N: I, at the end of this fic, started to really like Junior's character, and his interaction with other people (like his and Virgil's convo at the end of this chapter). Huh. I think that's why I wrote about him more in other fics. Of course, he isn't like this in the animated series lol!

**Chapter Twenty-Four:  
>Your Halo's Slipping Down<strong>

Junior and Virgil arrived at the settlement–but immediately upon cresting the hill, Junior knew something was wrong. It was a certain feeling that made his hairs stand straight up, and for his instincts to ring. Virgil had the same reaction, frowning as he examined the area with a hesitant action. The horses snorted and pulled at the reins, reacting with fear upon something that the humans couldn't exactly place themselves.

"Huh," Virgil muttered. "This is..._nice_. Way nice. But it'd be better wit' animals..."

"There _were_ animals. Mebbe...mebbe they took 'em for a walk?" Junior suggested weakly, not really thinking about the animals' absence.

Virgil snorted, but reined in his urge to laugh at the thought of Hotstreak taking the animals for a 'walk'. Junior glared at him, then lead the way toward the house. The place was still, silent–for a panicked moment, Junior thought for sure that the pair had left. There was absolutely no movement or whisper of sound. It was just...dead.

There were no indications that activities had been performed, and the walkways were undisturbed. There was some dust layering the wooden porch, and the barn was shut tight. The sheep pen and correl looked as if they'd never held animals before.

Both of them glanced around to notice these things. Junior dismounted his mare, letting the reins fall to the dirt as the horse shuffled nervously about. Both animals were fidgety, but Junior was too focused on the absence of both males to really notice their behavior. Uneasiness swept through him as he ascended the porch.

His skepticism over Junior's promise that Hotstreak was here was steadily rising. To him, it looked as if the place hadn't been disturbed in years.

"Hallo!" Junior called, then winced at the volume of his voice as it shattered the silence. Virgil joined him on the porch, and the pair glanced at the windows. Taking a deep breath, Junior reached out to open the door–he was growing more and more despaired that Hotstreak had taken off with Richie the moment he'd left. He anxiously grit his teeth as he and Virgil walked into the house.

It was silent. The furniture within looked empty and bleak–the kitchen looked untouched. Everything was in its place and neat, save for the dust that indicated the lack of use.

Virgil's eyebrows rose with skepticism. "You sure you ain't makin' shit up?" he asked Junior impatiently, crossing his arms–but he was ready to draw, just in case.

"No!" Junior cried, looking around with despair. Hotstreak must have left as soon as he crested the damn hill! He shook his head in disbelief, wondering why he'd taken so long to find Virgil. He should have just killed Hotstreak right then and there! "I ain't–! I didn't–! They was here!"

"I think yer just lyin'," Virgil said slowly, starting to go for his guns.

Both of them stilled at the sound of movement from the second floor. It sounded as if someone was rising from a bed. There came the telltale clomp of boots being slipped on, a couple of curses, then the heavy creak of a door opening. They both reacted with startled actions, unconsciously crowding together as they looked up at the stairway.

Hotstreak spotted them, and he gave an expression of surprise. Even so, he looked dazed, wary. As if he were still in the process of waking up. He looked as if he hadn't shaved for a few days, and his red hair was messy.

"Virgil?" he questioned.

"Yer alive!" Virgil crowed. "Holy shit! _Yer alive_!"

As Junior looked around anxiously for Richie, Hotstreak hesitated. He worked his jaw, then slowly descended the stairway, taking each step cautiously. His eyes were sweeping around them, noting the somewhat clean floors–taking in the furniture. His expression grew steadily confused–he then looked at the two men as he reached them, searching for horror or shock. There wasn't any.

Virgil reached out to sock his shoulder companionably, then embraced him with a joyous laugh. Hotstreak was taken by surprise by the action, awkwardly thrown off balance. Junior tried not to be impatient, but he was looking around for Richie.

"How you been, ol' man?" Virgil asked, visibly cheered by his friend's appearance.

Hotstreak ignored him, pulling away to glance out at the windows. He exhaled with slow action as the two watched him with puzzled expressions. Seeing that everything was normal, he hurried outside. He was utterly amazed that the carnage he'd seen just the other day was gone. Walking onto the porch, he stared down at the dirt–there wasn't any presence of blood, nor any sort of tracks.

Virgil and Junior followed, baffled by his behavior.

Hotstreak hurried toward the barn, sweeping the doors open to see nothing. He stared in silent disbelief at the emptiness within. The entire place had been covered in blood. It had been rank of gore. The rafters bore a few chafe marks, but...he was utterly bewildered as to how Richie had managed to make it seem as if nothing had occurred.

...Was it all just some horrible nightmare? Had he missed something completely? Distracted while those Things took off with him?

Horror filled him, then, sucking in a deep breath as he realized that he hadn't yet seen the kid anywhere.

"Hotstreak?" Virgil questioned with dumbfounded hesitation. "What's goin' on, man?"

Hotstreak blinked, then whirled around. He looked as if he were just seeing them for the first time. "Virgil? _What_...? What you doin' here?"

Virgil and Junior looked confused, shuffling nervously and with obvious lack of understanding.

Then Junior peered at him suspiciously. "You _trippin_'?"

"No!" Hotstreak barked, glaring at him. He grew enraged upon seeing the man, shoulders and chest puffing, lips curling. "What _you_ doin' here? Didn't I warn ya–?"

"Hotstreak, what the hell's goin' on?" Virgil interrupted, confused.

The redhead straightened and looked at him with renewed remembrance. "I–!"

He cut himself off, looking at the house with horror. He then pushed past them, hurrying over as he was slammed with the memory of coming back to the house to find Richie had slit his wrists. Panic and guilt hit him as he called his name.

Junior and Virgil exchanged entirely bewildered expressions, then hurried after him.

"Hotstreak, what is goin' on?" Virgil demanded impatiently.

"Where's the boy?" Junior demanded at the same time. "Did you do somethin' to him?"

"'Boy'?" Virgil repeated, pausing in mid-stride. Then he resumed rushing again. "What _boy_?"

Hotstreak ignored them both, then rushed into the house, hitting the staircase at a frantic pace.

"You have a kid?" Virgil howled, rushing into the house. "Another one? _Again_?"

Hotstreak disappeared into Richie's room–but the kid wasn't there. That hideous nightgown had been discarded, tossed over the edge of the bed; which also looked as if he hadn't been sleeping in it the last few nights. In total confusion, he ran his hand over his face, trying to think. He slowly made his way out of the room, and headed downstairs. Then he gave a start.

"Where the fuck's my horse?" he cried in panic. He tried to remember if he'd seen Charger that day, if the stallion had been part of that carnage. But he honestly couldn't remember. He was once again racing outside, the other two following cluelessly.

"What the hell's goin' on?" Junior demanded impatiently, growing tired of the bewildering scene.

"My horse is gone!" Hotstreak exclaimed, whistling for the stallion and scanning the surrounding horizon. He then began looking for him, and his frantic search came up in the discovery that the buckboard was also missing. He stilled, panting with effort–trying to pierce together answers with his confusing array of memory. He just couldn't remember or think of any way he'd seen Richie leave, or–

"Francis, what the hell is goin' on?" Virgil demanded, Hotstreak whirling on him.

"Don't CALL me that, Virgil!"

"Sorry, but–!"

"Where is the boy?" Junior growled again, looking frustrated. "_Where is he_?"

Hotstreak whirled on him, off balance by his sudden movement. "You ain't takin' him!"

"I've got better use for him than you!" Junior shouted, once again stepping up to the big man. But he was still shorter and slighter than the six foot four redhead. Virgil had to shake his head at his persistence, but he was just confused at the entire situation.

"You–!"

Virgil inserted two fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle that made both of them wince. Both shut up and glared at him. He waved his arms about frantically. "Before ya'll start beatin' the shit outta each other, can ya explain what the fuck ya'll talkin' about! I'm in the dark, here! Who the hell is this boy?"

Hotstreak and Junior glared at each other, then looked away, giving each other space. Hotstreak started to explain before Junior cut in with: "He's got the boy all slaved up! Keeps him for sex and–!"

"_What_?" Virgil shrieked.

"NO I AIN'T! _NO!_" Hotstreak cried over Virgil's exclamation. But guilt was written all over every feature. "Jeez! Virgil, he's tellin' lies–!"

"No I ain't! Kid tole me hisself, that he's the 'worst one'!" Junior interrupted. "Came to rescue him, I did! That's why I brought you along! Talk some sense into this crazy cracker!"

"Who's this _boy_?" Virgil screeched, then whapped Hotstreak across the head, startling the redhead. "You didn't tell me you were into men! All this time–!"

"Virgil, I don't–!"

"BOY!" Junior bellowed over their shouts, storming past them. "Where are you? Answer me if you ain't dead!"

"He ain't dead!" Hotstreak cried in exasperation, about to swing a fist at him. Virgil grabbed him by the arm, swinging him around so that they could face each other.

"What are you two talkin' about?" he growled. "What's goin' on?"

As Junior went bellowing from one room to the next, Hotstreak looked at Virgil with a guilty, defensive expression. He fiddled with everything from his shirt, to his belt, pockets and picked at the hair at his arms as he tried to come up with a pleasing explanation for it all.

"It ain't what he said, Virgil," he finally said with a hurried tone. "It ain't! You gotta believe me!"

"I–! I would, but...if'n I knew what was goin' on...!" Virgil exclaimed, his eyes searching Hotstreak's for any sort of explanation. But all he saw was guilt and defensiveness. It gave him a curdling feeling to know that something odd was going on, and his friend was in the middle of it all. "Why don't you tell me first–where's the boy?"

"I–! I don' know! Honestly, I–! Virgil, he went crazy!" Hotstreak cried, remembering that day. He paled significantly, all of it coming back with startling and sickening clarity. The sounds, the smells, the colors–! That legless lamb struggling to crawl along, and Richie trying to kill it.

Virgil stepped back, because the colors that were spreading along Hotstreak's usually tanned features were changing from pale gray to green. His friend looked simply–horrified. Utterly terrorized–these were things he hadn't seen since that day they'd come back to the ranch to find it destroyed by zombies.

"When he was here–we were livin' together! When he was here, he–we had over three hundred head of cattle! An' sheep!"

"Sheep? Since when ya'll into _sheep_?"

"They was all his! Alla it! I–I let him have them, thinkin' that–that he'd want–! But lissen–! He went an' kilt them–a lot of them! He just went crazy! Just _real crazy_! An' he's a lil' kid, he's not even–!"

"What ya mean, 'crazy'?" Virgil asked, wincing at the utter disbelief as his friend's voice rose with hysteria, and this large, seemingly invincible manly-man was nearing knocking his knees with what he'd seen. It was starting to scare him, and left him feeling as if there was no safety in the world.

"Virgil! Lissen to me!"

"I am! You tellin' me of a crazy kid–!"

"_Ninety pounds_, Virgil, mebbe even not that! A lil' taller'n Sharon–! An' he's haulin' a one thousand pound heifer up the rafter like it ain't nothin'–! An' men! Indians–! All bigger'n him, an' he's got 'em tied up an' he's killin' an' he's laughin' an' talkin' all CRAZY–!"

Virgil was astounded by Hotstreak's hysteria. The man had obviously seen tremendously horrifying things, and he began waving his arms about to get his attention.

"Hey! Hey, hey, _hey_! It's all right, now! It's all right! It ain't happenin'–it's back then, man! It ain't here now!"

"That's what 'm sayin', Virgil! It was all so much! Blood, guts–he had the kitchen all piled up with all this shit!" Hotstreak screamed, gesturing wildly at the kitchen.

He made a double-take at how clean it was, now. How all the furniture was back in place–how the floorboards revealed nothing of the gore that had been lining the counters and residing in pots.

Junior joined them at that point, panting slightly with his efforts in running from room to room. Hearing the end of Hotstreak's cries, he scowled at the man–then lunged at him. "You killed him, you sonnava–! You murdered that kid, an' you just makin' up lies 'bout it!"

"I didn't touch him!" Hotstreak cried. Easily, he shoved Junior off his back, expression turning venomous. Both of them lunged at each other again, swatting and punching. It was easy to tell who would win the fight, but Junior's persistence and fury had more strength than Hotstreak's. Virgil intervened, lunging between them in an effort to separate them.

"Cut it out, you two!" Virgil growled. "Knock it off! Now...let's just...calm down. Let's get some info–Hotstreak? You kill him?"

"NO!"

Virgil looked at Junior, adjusting his hat. "He didn't kill him, man."

Junior gave him an aghast expression. "You can't believe that–!"

"_I didn't kill 'im_!"

Virgil waved his arms about. "OKAY! Junior, he didn't kill 'im. Now, Hotstreak is tellin' me a fascinatin' story 'bout a ninety-pound kid liftin' cows onto rafters. Let 'im finish..."

Junior scoffed, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms and called him a vile name. "He's obviously _crazed_. That kid is so weak an' useless, he can't even take a SHIT wit'out bein' told to! 'Sides, he all scared of animals."

Virgil scowled at him. "Stop usin' that word!"

"You callin' me a liar?" Hotstreak snarled at the younger Alva, jabbing a thumb against his chest.

"_Yeah_ I'm callin' you a liar!" Junior exclaimed, looking at him in disbelief.

Virgil sighed as they lunged at each other once more. Wiping his face tiredly, he ignored Hotstreak picking Junior up easily and tossing him across the room.

He had to get this story straight. It was just...it seemed as if life's stresses had finally caught up to his friend. Frankly–he heard Junior's yowl of pain at this point, and fleshy smacks that made Virgil wince–Virgil wondered how Hotstreak had lasted this long. The man had so many horrors and traumas that it seemed impossible in how sane Hotstreak seemed at times. Maybe the man was just...confused. Tired.

Maybe he was just dreaming things up.

Later that night, he sat at the table with the two men–Junior was sporting injuries and grumbling while Hotstreak spilt the rest of the story to them with overexcited exclamations and further expressions of horror and disbelief.

Hotstreak was telling them of how he'd found Richie with the Indians and ended at the slaughter in the barn. Of course, he omitted several details, and that was of their relationship and Richie's suicide attempt.

Junior blinked, thumbing a swelling knob near his hairline. He knew Richie–he couldn't accept that Richie was thinking for himself in the way Hotstreak described, doing all the things Hotstreak had said he'd done. It was just...impossible.

Virgil tried to picture the sickly teen he'd last seen trailing after Junior. He couldn't picture Richie doing those things, either. He stared at Hotstreak with skepticism as the redhead finally took a deep breath, exhausted by his rendering of flashbacks.

He swept his hands through his matted red hair, all his movements filled with agitation and exhaustion. He looked at Virgil, as if he'd have the answers right in front of him. "Mebbe he was possessed, huh? I mean–really, he–he couldn't've done those things–!"

"I think yer just plum crazy, an' you just tryin' to justify yer behavior with killin' him!" Junior snapped. "I'm thinkin' since all the animals ain't here, you slaughtered him an' _ate him_!"

Virgil waved at him impatiently while Hotstreak stared at Junior with heated exasperation. "I dunno, man. I don't. I mean...you under a lot of stress. Maybe...maybe it's just..."

"See? I knew you wouldn't believe me! It's all–just–it's–you had to have seen it!" Hotstreak then cried helplessly. His broad shoulders slumped, and he buried his face into his hands. "You had to have seen it...it...it was fuckin' _freaky_..."

Junior shook his head in disgust, staring at him with undisguised scorn. Virgil picked at the table for a few moments, then shot both men helpless looks. The room fell into thick silence as each contemplated his thoughts.

Junior rolled his eyes, shifting forward in his seat. "Well...that's that, then. You ain't have any idea where he might go?"

"...No. He don't know the area. He just stuck around the house."

"Mebbe...he tried headin' back East? That's where came from, huh?" Virgil asked, frowning at Junior and his exasperated scoff.

Hotstreak looked lost for a moment, then he shrugged. "Dunno, man...mebbe. I mean...he might've. He...he weren't doing too well, here."

Junior pushed away from the table with a highly exaggerated sigh. "'M tellin' you people. He's the most worthless, helpless kid you ever done met. He wouldn't go off on his own. He's too scared."

"Jesus, Virgil! Who listens to this guy?" Hotstreak complained. "You hangin' wit' him, too?"

"Hey, he led me to you, huh?" Virgil shrugged.

"Man, all I'm sayin', is that this kid wouldn't do any of that stuff unless ya'll had a hand in it," Junior continued, stuffing his hat atop of his head. "If he _did_ take your damn horse an' shitty carriage-thing, there would be tracks. I'm gonna find them...in the mornin'. Ya'll don't mind, do ya?"

"Sheesh, I ain't yer daddy," Virgil muttered.

"Why you want him?" Hotstreak demanded. "C'mon, man, he don't need that sorta life!"

"What's in mind ain't for your knowledge. 'Sides, really, _you_ usin' him for the wrong reasons."

"I ain't–!"

"No one's usin' anybody!" Virgil interjected. He gave them both a puzzled look. "Ya'll hear that?"

All of them stilled, straining their ears. Hearing nothing, Hotstreak sighed heavily, resting his aching head into his hands. "Must be them Things, Virgil. They around every night."

"'Things'?"

" Y'know, creatures. Like...nasty lookin' ones. They come out at night, but they can't come in."

"...Creatures?"

Hotstreak sighed impatiently as Junior frowned at the windows. "I told you 'bout them, V!"

"That ain't creatures," Junior then said, moving toward the back door. "That's a horse. An' one of them trailer-thingies."

Hotstreak shot out of his chair with haste, and Virgil confirmed the sounds with his own hearing. He followed, hands on his guns as he wondered what these creatures looked like. He had a million questions swirling around in his thoughts, but he set them aside as Hotstreak shoved Junior aside and hurried outside.

Virgil could have sworn he heard a set of hisses that bordered on demonic, and the obvious sounds of things scurrying around outside as Hotstreak tromped out onto the porch. He and Junior followed cautiously, the sounds of the arriving horse and buckboard obvious.

Sparky and Junior's mare gave out cautious nickers, Charger's surprised whinny screeching through the heavy stillness of the night.

The three men watched Charger pull into the light, the stallion's eyes wide and wild, ears pressed flat against his skull–he was pulling the buckboard with agitated movements, and his coat was shiny with sweat. It looked as if he'd protested and struggled the entire time of being used.

Richie frowned at the sight of the new visitors, visibly tensing. He was dressed in a couple of shirts and a pair of worn jeans that were rolled at the ankles. The gloves, hat and jacket were items that Hotstreak didn't recognize.

"What are they doing here?" he demanded sullenly as he yanked Charger's reins to a stop. The stallion immediately protested treatment, kicking out with his front hooves and pulling hard on the reins. Another yank, and the stallion was twisting in his capture, eyes wild as he sought escape.

Hotstreak, concerned for his horse, reached out to grab his bit. His cautious eyes were locked on the teen's as Richie continued to frown at the two men.

"Where you been?" he asked, defensively.

"It doesn't matter." But the blond didn't move from his seat, eyeing both Junior and Virgil warily.

Virgil tried to put on a friendly face, but he was just caught in a mixture of puzzled reaction and a sort of concerned expression as he wondered how long the boy had been sick. It was obvious that life was straining on the diminutive male.

Junior frowned, wondering if he would accomplish his task if Richie was so sickly in appearance. He was going to be pissed if the boy died before Junior could reach his dream.

Hotstreak immediately worked on releasing Charger from the ropes that held him. The stallion was so jittery and anxious that he fought the entire time–when he was free, the stallion didn't hesitate to run off into the darkness.

The redhead then peered into the emptiness of the buckboard, puzzled by the darkness within. He then looked at Richie again, indicating for him to come down.

"Where's the animals?" he asked. "What–"

"I will not be kept from accomplishing my Purpose," Richie instead growled, eyeing the two men. Once Hotstreak realized he was reaching for a weapon at his side, he froze. "Nobody will use me again! Nobody's going to–!"

"Don't you be goin' for your gun, man," Virgil said cautiously, a little shocked that he was seeing the teen react so purposefully. "We don't want to be shootin' at you."

"You shoot me, boy, an' I'll knock you around so hard, you won't even _remember_ what it was you was tryin' to shoot us for!" Junior threatened viciously as his hands rested on his gun.

Richie froze, a little lost at his next move. Virgil scowled at Junior, but his hands didn't waver from his own weapons.

Anxiously, Hotstreak gestured at Richie to climb down. "C'mon, man, it's creepy out here. 'Sides, you got some explainin' to do."

"I'm not going in there. Not with them. Not with you. All of you–! You have that look. You're going to try to–!"

"Don't make me go out there an' drag you offa that myself!" Junior snapped, gesturing at the porch. "Get off that thing! I ain't sayin' it again!"

Once again, Richie froze. It was as if Junior's threats were trying to break through whatever defensive wall he'd raised to protect himself with, and was struggling internally to obey himself, or the younger Alva upon automatic reaction. He seemed a far cry different from the insane being he'd presented to Hotstreak days earlier.

Something skittered across the dirt, startling him as he glanced out into the darkness. He thought of his Purpose, hearing three different people trying to coax him–with their own individual manners–into leaving the buckboard and coming into the house. Finally, he slumped in defeat and climbed down, avoiding Hotstreak completely. He skittered around both Virgil and Junior, and hurried into the house without looking at them.

Hotstreak was more confused than he. He kept wondering if it had all been some odd nightmare. He turned away from the buckboard and gave Virgil a lost expression.

Virgil shrugged in response, unsure of the situation himself.

**010101010110**

The next morning, Junior awoke with a start. He wasn't sure what it was that woke him, but he knew it had to have been something out of the ordinary. He was sleeping in one of the spare rooms, and had fallen asleep out of exhaustion. He didn't remember saying anything to either man, nor making plans with them in the morning.

As his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything yet, he rose from his bed. He'd forgotten why he'd awakened as he muttered to himself and wiped the grit out of his eyes. He wanted a drink–but he hadn't had any liquor since...well...he couldn't quite remember. Just that it had been awhile.

He was starting to stretch, to venture out and look for something to eat when he heard Richie shriek in a high-pitched volume.

"_I DID IT_! I DID IT, and I DON'T REGRET IT! _EITHER_ OF IT! _ANY_ OF IT! I'd do it again if I had to, and if I had the chance, I'd just do it again and again and again–! I can't wait to get to _you_! I'd rather rip _you_ apart and find out what makes you tick! I want to see if your body organs are just the same as mine! Or are you half animal? Will you even have any resemblance of order like humans?"

Junior blinked. That...what...he was confused. What was the kid talking about? And to whom? It gave him a shiver, hairs standing at the base of his neck because the thin, reedy voice Richie was speaking in just...it suggested insanity.

"You _would_ say all that!" Richie then continued, a one-sided conversation from his locked room–they'd heard furniture moved about last night, after he'd disappeared in there. "You are all cowards, hiding outside and not trying to come back in. You're afraid of HIM–that's to my advantage, for the now. But...you had your chance! I was out there for days, and you didn't even know. HAH! Fool on you, you incompetent–_what_? You have no idea what you say! You have no idea the extent of my suffering–! I do NOT want to stay here–I am not meant to be here for the rest of my life! I HAVE A PURPOSE! I WILL SEEK AND ACCOMPLISH MY PURPOSE, and if I have to kill to do it, then that's what I have to do."

Junior blinked again. He was starting to feel uncomfortably nervous. And very scared. For some reason, fear was a big factor in his current range of feelings. He tried to shake that off as he rose from the bed, ruffling his hair. He was NOT going to be afraid of some child that was...very obviously off the deep end. He heard that some people were like that–their intelligence grew so great that they lost sight of other factors of their perceptions of life.

Perhaps Richie had just temporarily blinded himself with insanity because...well...who wouldn't go insane in a no-where place like this, with a dimwit such as Hotstreak for company?

Frankly, Junior felt he was justified in that factor. _Anybody_ would go insane.

"I WILL NOT!" Richie suddenly shrieked again. "I will not do that again–! EVER! I would bite my tongue off instead!"

Junior grumbled to himself, forgoing his boots as he stomped out of his room. Heading to Richie's closed door, he saw Virgil peeking out of his borrowed room as well, looking wholly confused and slightly frightened. Hotstreak must have still been asleep, or just used to the behavior, for he was no where in sight.

"That was just bad circumstance! I will succeed next time, and no one will stop me! _No one_!"

Junior kicked his door viciously. "Shut up, you little twat! Jesus H. Christ, what's the meanin' of all this fuckin' screamin' so early in the damn mornin'? No wonder yer insane, you weird son of a bitch!"

The silence was thick as Junior listened for a reaction. Hearing none, he sighed with accomplishment, and turned away. He glared at Virgil as he walked past the man, heading downstairs. He was hungry, still tired, and had no idea how he was going to convince Richie to leave with him. He had no idea how he was even going to get close enough to talk to him about his plans.

After Junior descended the stairway, Virgil crept into Hotstreak's room. The man was still asleep and dead to the world, it seemed.

He was bewildered how Hotstreak could ignore that mad rambling. How was it he was able to sleep through that insanity?

"Hey," he hissed, kicking the bed. The man didn't stir, and Virgil glanced around himself with apprehension as he felt...suddenly not alone. As if he and Hotstreak weren't the only men in the room. Cold, he kicked the bed again. Hotstreak didn't move, nor did his sleeping features acknowledge any sort of reaction to the rude gestures. "_FRANCIS_!"

With no response, Virgil frowned at his longtime friend. He glanced around the room once more, noting the messiness of the bedroom. It was as if Hotstreak just let things drop where they were and didn't bother with picking them back up again. Everything was in such a disarray that Virgil winced. He looked out the windows–the sun was still missing. The clouds had grown darker–it appeared rain was coming upon them, and he heard thunder in the distance.

What he wouldn't give for the sun's warmth again...

He looked down at Hotstreak with worry. The man was holding a gun under his pillow, and slept with all his clothes on–as if prepared to move in a hurry. But...he wasn't waking.

Virgil reached out and shook him hard, frowning as Hotstreak continued to sleep.

"That's weird," he muttered, giving up. He left the room quietly, staring at Richie's closed door with apprehension.

He wouldn't admit aloud that he was afraid the kid would pop out and skin him, or something. All his talk about killing and not regretting it made Virgil nervous. He practically sprinted past his room and took the stairs two at a time. Junior was in the kitchen, rummaging for something to eat.

"You know, I'm goin' out on a limb here, but somethin' tells me you ain't ever been happy in yer life," Virgil commented as he joined the search.

Junior scowled at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"...Dunno." Virgil dropped it as he handled a small container of canned fruit. He held it up for Junior to recognize. The man found some jerky wrapped in paper and twine, and the pair settled for that.

"There's not very much in the house," Junior said, pouring peaches into a wooden bowl and using a knife to fork it into his mouth. "An' the flour's almost all gone. Even if they were gonna stay here, they gonna starve."

"There's such a thing called 'hunting'...I don't believe you've heard of it?"

"I ain't no damn dumb ass, negro," Junior grumbled. "Still, both times when I came in, there ain't no animals 'round, save the cattle and sheep they'd had. They had a lot, too."

"He couldn't've kilt them all," Virgil said quietly, trying to picture Richie killing the cattle.

"'M thinkin' that some got away...maybe they still in the hills?"

"Well...I'd really prefer that Hotstreak came back to Luna. I mean, it'd be good for both of them. Betcha livin' out here has them all stressed, all the time."

"Yeah, the kid's prolly all angry that he's bein' raped every night."

Virgil threw his jerky at Junior. "Why you sayin' that shit, huh? I can't see my friend ever doin' that sorta thing to anybody! That's just fuckin' sick, an' you talk that way one more time–!"

"Shit! He's been fightin' me for that boy since that first night he got his service!" Junior complained, picking the jerky up from the floor. He studied it for a moment before shrugging and eating it. "Everyone falls for a whore, an' gets it in their head that they can be the one to 'save' them. But'cha can't–absolutely CAN'T–make a housewife outta a whore. It just ain't done. They just too...wild."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "Jesus...it ain't cuz they're _wild_...it's cuz they been traumatized, you piece o'shit. They're terrified of everyone, an' they think everyone's gonna use 'em. They ain't got no control over their bodies, so they try an' have control in other places. Some people get all into it for the wrong reasons–it ain't cuz they're 'wild'..."

Junior gave him an exasperated expression. "Whatever. The point is, you can't tame 'em."

"They don't wanna be tamed! They wanna be their own person!"

"What would you know? You don't know shit about whores the way that I do. I worked wit' them all my life. 'M practically an expert on them! Could write a book on dealin' with whores..."

Virgil let out a sound of disbelief. "Jesus, man! Your ego chokes me! Let me leave the room before your dumbness manages ta brainwash me."

"Anyway, the kid wanted to be a teacher before daddy decided otherwise on 'im. Figured I'd offer him that position. They need teachers in Luna, eh?"

"Uh...Alva ain't really focusin' on that. He'd prolly have him workin' other things."

Junior frowned, briefly picturing Teresa. "Daddy would prolly make him work with the other whore, huh?"

"Dunno. Jus'...what you _really_ here for, man?" Virgil then asked, frowning at him. "You ain't leadin' me here for some act of good _just because_..."

"'M here to get the boy. That's all. Whatever you wanna do wit' your friend ain't nothin' of my concern."

"...Figures you had an ulterior motive. But whichever, thanks for bringin' me out here. My friend means a lot ta me."

"Whatever, you homo. Anyway, seein' as big red up there ain't lettin' me get close to the kid, why don't you go an' distract him while–"

"Hold up there, speedy. First off, why you want him? You ain't workin' wit' yer daddy on this, are ya?"

"Fuck that old codger!" Junior spit. "I ain't workin' for him, no mo'. Hope he has a heart attack an' dies! But, no, I ain't workin' for him. 'M on my own. I knew the kid was still alive, an'...well...he's very, uh, smart. I was gonna ask if he'd work _with_ me on things..."

"Like what?" Virgil asked in an interested tone.

Junior frowned, wondering just how much to reveal. He didn't want Alva knowing what he was planning on doing. He gave Virgil a studious look. "Jus'..._stuff_. That's all. Leave it alone."

Virgil was understandably unconvinced. But he sat back in his seat and wondered what Junior's real motive was.

Both of them froze at the creak of wood, looking over to see Richie staring at them suspiciously. Each one was wondering how much he'd heard as the blond fidgeted nervously with the sleeves of his shirt.

Junior finally shifted in his seat. "Git over here, boy! Have some...stuff that kinda looks like peaches."

"I'm not doing that for Alva again," Richie said quietly. "_Never_."

"Doin' what?" Junior asked with exasperation, pouring some fruit into the bowl he'd used to eat his fruit. He pushed it to the seat furthest from him and Virgil and tossed the knife after it.

"I'm not working for you, either," Richie added, darting a nervous look at Virgil.

"I ain't–"

"Boy, no one's askin' you for shit," Junior complained over Virgil's protest. "But lemme ask ya somethin'..."

Richie was staring at the bowl of peaches hungrily. He started twisting the sleeves of his shirt anxiously, the audible sound of his stomach growling loudly. It almost seemed as if he hadn't heard Junior speak.

Virgil used his foot to kick the chair out from under the table, indicating for him to sit.

"You like layin' on yer back?" Junior asked casually. "You like sucking dick?"

"_Jesus_–!" Virgil cried, shooting him an embarrassed expression.

Richie looked horrified, pale face turning red. "N-_no_–!"

"You like having dicks up yer ass?"

"JUNIOR!" Virgil hissed.

"You like havin' cum on ya? Huh? Do ya? All that stuff?"

"Never–! Never, I'll _never_ do it again! _Ever_! I'll–!"

"Good. How 'bout you usin' that brain of yers instead?" Junior suggested with a hopeful expression. "Seems like it's bein' ignored, eh? How 'bout that?"

Virgil was flustered as he pulled his hat into his lap, fiddling with everything with obvious mortification of the images that he'd been presented with. Richie looked confused at the suggestion.

"Seein' as it looks like ya'll know what'cha doin' when you look at things, maybe ya'll wanna be focused on the creatures than...than whorin'. Huh? Sound good?"

Richie thought about it, visibly going over the question. It looked as if he wanted to believe it, but he was extremely wary of Junior's real intentions.

"I...yes...I'd rather...use my head rather than...than other things," he ventured slowly. But his expression turned suspicious. He knew Junior well. "What's in it for you?"

"'M just sayin'! Shit, tryin' to turn my life around an' apologize for all the bad things I done did my entire life, an' lookit what happens? I get shit for bein' apologetic!"

"_Please_," Richie muttered. "You're just as honest as a preacher."

Junior frowned. "You doubt me?"

"I'd be stupid if I didn't."

"Well, you are anyway! You wanna stay here with Red, you go an' do it. Havin' him up yer ass every night prolly sounds better than figurin' out how those creatures work, huh? Knew you liked dick, you damn faggot."

Virgil gave an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up into the air. "Junior, you have as much manners as a freakin' wolverine! Man, that ain't right! Look, kid–Rich? Richard? Junior's got his own ideas in his head, an'–!"

"What's in it for you?" Richie asked over Virgil's words. "What do you get out of using me?"

"...Who said I'm usin'–!"

"Because I know your intentions, creep! You are far from being honest and apologizing for any action you've taken–"

"Didja just call me a 'creep'?"

"You have ulterior motives for everything! More than likely, you are plotting some revenge against your father for abandoning you that night! I know you, Junior!"

Junior gave a sullen look. He waved Richie's words away. "I came ta offer you an opportunity to git outta here. Away from him. But since you all loved up by his dick..."

Richie's face turned an alarming shade of purple, and he was all but shaking as he snarled, "I don't like _anybody's_ dick!"

"...Coulda fooled me. The way you lyin' between yer teeth..."

"You–!"

"Sweet Jesus!" Virgil exclaimed, hands flying to his head. "You two sound like a married couple! Junior, you obvious, man. And Richard...I dunno. Neither choice sounds very good. Workin' wit' Junior, you know he has other ideas an' plans. An' my friend isn't like that...he–!"

"You are so deluded," Richie hissed at him. "Obviously, you don't know him very well. He lies to you, too. He hides many things from you, and you believe what you want to!"

Virgil blinked, then held his chest. "Jeez, kid. I'm just tryin' to help...I know what Junior's like, too, but I'm thinkin' yer better off with Hotstreak. At least he ain't gonna use you an' gain from you."

"HE'S THE WORST ONE!" Richie screamed, making both of them wince. "He TRICKED ME!"

"Knock off the shriekin'," Junior ordered, rubbing his ear. "Last I looked, you ain't no damn girl."

"I'm sure whatever he did, he just weren't thinkin'," Virgil reasoned. "He's kinda slow. I mean, not in the mental way, but ...just..._dumb_. He don't think things through."

"Both of you are idiots," Richie hissed, turning and stomping off.

Junior flicked a booger at Virgil. "Lookit what you did, now, asshole. Now I gotta work harder."

Virgil winced. Junior rose from his chair, stretching. Then, grumbling to himself over the situation, he left the kitchen to head outside.

Frowning, Virgil was left by himself. He sat at the table for a while, thinking over the exchange. He knew Junior was here to get Richie for something...but what? And he knew Hotstreak made mistakes...but they couldn't have been that bad. He was wondering how he could get the real information out of him when something at the corner caught his eye. He turned to greet Hotstreak, but grew confused. The redhead hadn't been standing there...but he could have sworn it had been an older man.

He wrinkled his brow, and felt instantly chilled. The room felt strange at that instant, and he rose from the chair. He headed back upstairs to try and wake Hotstreak once more.


	26. Maybe You'll Get What You Want This Time

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**A/N: **Had to karate chop this chapt in half. So it looks wonky.

**Chapter Twenty-Five:  
>Maybe You'll Get What You Want This Time Around Pt. 1<strong>

Richie stared out at the empty fields, his mind running with various thoughts. It felt good to sit here in the porch swing, running his mind's eye over the plans and various details he'd taken note of while he'd performed his examinations of the animals. It was all for a purpose, of course–he'd gotten what little he needed to determine his worth in the world. The cows' anatomy had been similar to those of a Hound–almost the same basics, give or take a few different internal designs.

And the sheep...well, they were clues given in which animals reacted after death.

The zombies...well...it had been an interesting ordeal with zombies.

He had to wonder if this was all magic. Or some sort of psychokinetic determination of one individual, or another. He hadn't been presented with those details to know what it was that had the invasion prompted. Was it an army of demons like the Things–known to Madelyn as the Seven Bad Men–or one individual such as this...Madelyn? Who was also this 'him' that Hotstreak and the others spoke of.

'Him'...Madelyn...the First had mentioned that 'him' was a _her_. Which was correct?

_Come inside, now, lovey_, came Muh's voice. _It's time to retire...they'll be out soon_.

Richie stared out at the horizon, studying the various colors that turned the clouds different shades. He heard thunder in the distance, and smelled moisture.

"Just a few more minutes, Muh," he said faintly, thinking how closely the colors resemble those of the peaches Junior had given him that morning. His stomach turned and twisted–hunger made him wince. He hadn't eaten in all that time he was away.

He could smell things cooking inside, and knew that it was Virgil doing the cooking. The spices were different and...Junior was cursing about something that the black man was using.

Richie thought about the conversation that he'd overhead. He knew Junior wanted to use him...but the determination of his reasoning produced him with nothing.

While he was practically aching to know what it was Junior had in mind, he kept thinking how the man was capable of trickery. Junior could probably just be using him to get him back into whoring his body.

Unconsciously, he lifted a wrist, testing the width with a quick match-up of thumb with the other fingers.

And Virgil was Hotstreak's friend. Friends liked doing things in groups. Junior could probably bargain things from those two while they used Richie.

The blond had thought about that, and was scared–but at the same time...the information he could gleam from Virgil was endless.

Virgil kept claiming that he knew his friend. Well...how _much_ did the man know? What if he knew Hotstreak's origins in the invasion?

He licked his lips, hungrier than ever. Information could be his if he'd just...relax. Let things happen. If things _did_ turn to that...he knew how to speed up the body's want for orgasm. After all, he'd told the First he'd do what it took to get the information he needed.

But...but he didn't want to be touched that way, again.

The internal battle began anew as he debated that route.

_It's time to be going in, now_, Muh repeated, much more firmer. _You don't want to catch cold._

"One more minute," Richie muttered, staring at the colors.

He inhaled deeply of something savory, and began reviewing an internal menu of safe foods to eat. He had to stay bones–the looks both Virgil and Junior gave him last night were satisfactory. Both gave Richie some lift that they found him disgusting and vile. And who wanted to touch something like that?

_NOW_.

When Papa spoke, Richie jumped, nearly falling out of the swing. "Okay, okay," he muttered, picking up his quilt. The old man watched him scurry back into the house, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The pictures on the wall told him Muh and Papa were making sure he was obeying their gentle orders. They weren't the bad ones, he'd grown to realize. They'd been there the entire time–watching over both men. They just hadn't presented themselves to them because they had felt that it wasn't needed–but the invasion of their house by an outside soul had been unforgivable.

Papa had been watching over Hotstreak–Muh assigned herself to Richie. Mainly because he looked like their firstborn, and Papa saw a man in the redhead. Richie didn't much like Papa's views, but...the old man sometimes knew what he was talking about. The old man was convinced Hotstreak didn't sleep too well, and often 'helped' out with that aspect. Unfortunately, even in death, Papa's ears continued to fail him, and he hadn't heard much of the activity that Muh encountered.

Still...Richie was warming up to them both, mainly because they had been kind. And he was aching for some kindness. No matter if he found it in ghosts.

He started to head for his room when he saw Virgil standing alone in the kitchen, poking at something in one of the heavy pots on the stove. He hesitated on the stairway, listening for Junior or Hotstreak. Hearing or seeing none of them, he turned away from the stairway.

_I'm scared_, he thought anxiously. He didn't want to be used, but he was desperate for information. What if Virgil left? What if he never had the chance for information then?

The horror of that question prompted bravery.

Virgil must've not noticed him standing there, because once the man looked up to grab something from a nearby cabinet, he let out a surprised shriek. Then looked embarrassed as Richie frowned at him.

"Sorry," Virgil apologized with embarrassed chuckles. "You startled me, man. You hungry? Got some bread all made...ya'll runnin' outta flour. An' those crops are shit. Better think of re-locating, or something. Cuz..._damn_."

Richie spied the imperfect rolls of bread nearby. Though he could see blackened spots here and there, they looked absolutely scrumptious. He almost never heard Virgil continue speaking as he stared at the group of bread, wondering just how much he'd allow himself to eat.

"It's gonna rain, too. Kinda nice night out, but I've been missin' the moon. Say, you sick, man? I mean, not to be rude or anythin', but you look really, really...really really _really_ sick. I feel like just _lookin_' atcha's gonna break ya! Y'know? I haven't heard you coughing, an' maybe you don't have the trots, but–"

"Shut up." It felt good to talk that way to others. Richie felt a warming thrill race through him as Virgil complied, but looked taken back by the clipped tone. "I want to know about...your friend. They aren't here, are they?"

Virgil busied himself with stirring the contents of the larger pot, then threw him a cautious glance. Richie felt himself grow impatient the longer the black man chose not to speak; he shifted his weight from foot to foot, then narrowed his eyes.

"They are," Virgil said. "Hotstreak's in his room, and Junior's busy lookin' through the basement."

Secretly, Richie allowed himself a picture of seeing Junior ripped apart by the Things. He could just imagine how human skin would tear under tooth and claw. He wanted to imagine Junior quiet and still throughout the entire thing–because being silent and still wasn't something common of the younger Alva.

It took a great amount of determination to stop that train of thought. As much as he liked to kill Junior in his mind, he had other things to do.

Virgil flicked a glance at him, uncomfortably at a loss of how to address or continue conversation with the kid. He started to speak when Richie asked, "What did he do? He started this entire war, didn't he? He's to blame for all these deaths and for all the creatures that have appeared–"

"He didn't do nothin'!" Virgil interrupted fiercely. "He didn't start nothin'! It weren't his fault! Whatever he says, it wasn't his fault! It could have happened to anyone!"

"Nothing's _ever_ his fault, is it?" Richie sneered. "He always has a reason, he's always the loser. _He's_ the one losing everything. It's never his fault, and he's _always_ the victim."

"Geez," Virgil muttered, shooting him a worried glance. "You didn't have very good relationships with people, did you? You always doubt things like that?"

"People have given me reason to doubt them all, no matter how saintly they appear. Now, how did this all start? What did he do to prompt their invasion?"

"He didn't do nothin'! It was a mistake, somethin' he regrets to this day!" Virgil said on a huff. "An' you need to work on your people skills. You turnin' out just like Junior–all demandin'."

Richie grit his teeth. "All I asked from you was how this all started, and why he was in the middle of it. That's all the information I want."

"...He ain't talked to you about it?"

"...He refuses to delve into it."

"Then if he ain't comfortable wit' it, _I_ ain't comfortable wit' it," Virgil decided. "That's his personal business. If'n he wants ta talk 'bout it, then that's his choice. If he don't, then it ain't my place to share what's his business."

Frustration arose in Richie, and burned so greatly that his face twisted with malice. Virgil turned to search through a drawer for another spoon when Richie shoved the pot of food off the stove, toward him. Virgil turned in time to see this and quickly jumped back as the hot stew overturned in mid-air, spilling out onto the floor with a loud clang of sound.

"_Jesus_–!"

"I don't ask for much!" Richie screamed at him, grabbing the pile of bread and hurling it at him. "You want me to work on my people skills? _You're_ telling me to work on _my_ people skills? Why don't you get to know your friends a little more, instead of accepting what you see!"

"Crazy sumbitch! That was our dinner!" Virgil protested, hearing Junior race up from the basement, and Hotstreak hurrying down the stairs, both of them armed.

Richie stopped his shouting, turning to see them approach. Immediately, he skirted around Junior, but Hotstreak reached out to grab him as he took in the scene with a look of alarm.

Virgil shrugged helplessly as both men took in the overturned pot of stew that had spilled out on the floor. Junior worked his jaw, then turned to glare at Richie, who was pulling at his arm.

"Why'd you go an' do that, ya dumb shit?" he demanded. "The hell's th' matter with you?"

"Virg, you all right?" Hotstreak asked over Junior's demand, holding tight on Richie's arm and ignoring his growls.

"Yeah...just...I didn't expect..." Virgil trailed off, shrugging once more. "I can save some of it, but...food's runnin' out."

"Sorry 'bout that, man," Hotstreak apologized, moving away from the kitchen and pulling Richie with him. "He weren't this way before. I'm goin' to take 'im to his room."

"If I were you, I'd beat his damn worthless ass," Junior muttered, bending to scoop some of the food into a wooden bowl.

Virgil nodded in response to Hotstreak's intention, watching as his friend led Richie away. The blond looked wholly subdued at this point, being jerked along toward the stairway. He felt apprehension as he watched them ascend the stairway, wondering what it was that he wasn't seeing when he looked at them.

Wordlessly, Hotstreak led Richie toward his room, frowning with heavy thought as he mentally went over the scene in the kitchen. Whatever prompted the blond to try and attack his friend was something of concern to him. He kept thinking about that day, when Richie had mentioned his surprise over how everyone was 'the same'. Wondering out loud why everyone had different colors.

He opened the door to his room, and stopped short. There was something different about the room–it gave him a sense of feeling that something had happened right under his nose. But...but _what_?

He pushed Richie into his room. Not looking at him, he growled, "You leave that one alone. He's my friend. You do anythin' to hurt him...I'll make sure you regret it."

Golden eyes narrowed, burning with hate so strong that Hotstreak felt the hairs on his arms stand straight up.

"You'd look for any excuse to hurt me," Richie snarled. "_All of you_! _All_ of you are _all_ the same! You all just want to hurt the insignificant little bug just to feel as if you have some sort of power! Egotistical male freaks of nature–!"

"_Hey_!" Hotstreak bellowed over his rising shouts. "Knock it off. Keep it down. Don't know what's in yer head ta make ya all loony, but just stop it already, all right? We don't need that sorta tension. An' you need to eat. We're runnin' out of food. You got it in your head to slaughter everything–!"

"I couldn't have killed them all," Richie muttered, sitting slowly on the braided rug.

Hotstreak was relieved to hear that–but where did the rest of the herd go? He lowered his arm, studying the slight form before him. He hated feeling this way–hated feeling as if everything were his fault they were what they were today. He had the resigning feeling that he was the push into Richie's personality before him–the guilt was suffocating.

With a scowl, he slammed the door shut. He knew he should lock it, but he couldn't find the key. He'd just tell the others to sleep with an eye open to stay safe.

Dinner was tense as the other three ate. With what Virgil and Junior were able to save, it wasn't much. Junior and Virgil were starting to get used to the sounds of the Things as they scurried about outside, their various feet hitting the floorboards of the porch.

Virgil kept tossing Hotstreak worried looks while the redhead played with his food, a far-off expression on his worn face; Junior frowned at both of them, wondering when he could bring up the subject of taking Richie with him when he left.

"He was askin' about how it all started," Virgil said, tossing Junior a cautious glance. "I didn't think it was my place to say things about your past...Got all upset when I wouldn't tell him."

Hotstreak grunted, forcing himself to eat. "Gots it in his head that he has to know shit. I didn't feel like tellin' him all that. On such rocky grounds, anyway..."

"Gots to know _what_?" Junior asked, perked by information. He was ignored.

"He's...a character. I feel bad for him, man. It's like...it's like he were never treated right." At this, Virgil scowled at Junior. Junior blinked innocently, but he looked down at his food to avoid his accusing stare. "A mistreated dog bites back no matter how kind the owner happens ta be."

Hotstreak shrugged, but couldn't look up, either. He was much too guilty of his own crimes, but he was also frustrated at how things had turned out.

Virgil waited for something to be contributed into the conversation, but he sighed, lowering his fork. "You can't think of stayin' here, long. Why don't you come back to Luna with us?"

Hotstreak shrugged again. "Said he didn't kill all of them. They might be loose in the hills, somewhere..."

"Did you hear me? Come to Luna. I bet they'd need a guy like you around. Think of it–lots of people, lots of security...you won't be so isolated over there."

"...I don't want to live in a town, Virg! I could have...enemies, there. Made a lot of them."

"But think of it," Virgil urged. "An' the kid will have somethin' to do. Maybe there's a doctor there that can look at 'im an' see what the hell's wrong wit' him."

"Can't cure insanity," Junior muttered. He sat back in his seat. "Give 'im to me. I'll put 'im to work. That brain of his needs to be occupied with somethin'..."

"Man, who can trust _you_?" Virgil shot angrily. "You just a no-good sumbitch that–!"

"You ever hear that kid talk? He's got smarts in him that nobody hears of. _I_ hear it–he knows a lot that people can use if they just...kinda forget he's insane. You get him talkin' about how things work an' how they can be taken apart, an' it's just all...fascinating." Junior rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "He got ta talkin' about them Hound creatures, an' got me all thinkin'. If he can figure out how things work jus' by lookin' at them, what else can he do to contribute to things in the war?"

"What 'war'?" Virgil asked, exasperated.

"He _is_ a smart kid, Virgil," Hotstreak muttered. He thought of the drawings, and rose from his chair.

Virgil tossed him a curious look while Junior, excited in his prospects, continued with, "He just needs a little controlling, here an' there. He starts to lissen cuz he's the type that can't really be on his own, y'know? Anyway, just let me take 'im off yer hands. He ain't like the pair of you, anyway."

"What makes you so sure that he likes _you_?" Virgil asked, exasperated.

"Aw, jeez, c'mon...it all obvious! He ain't tried to kill me yet!"

"'Yet'..."

"Yeah, 'yet'. He knows better."

"...Your damn ego and arrogance is just too much! How can you stand liking yourself!"

"Shit, I don't look in the mirror everyday."

Virgil sighed as Hotstreak returned to the table, tossing him a worn leather pack. Virgil opened it, and pushed aside various things on the table once he realized what was inside. Junior helped him clear the way as he spilt out the various sheets of paper. Upon seeing the written notes and drawings, Junior picked up a few sheets while Virgil tossed the pack aside.

"Been workin' on them for days, V," Hotstreak said, staring at the mess. "Alla that just from lookin' at them. An' they so on the point, too. Just from lookin' at 'em, Virgil, he knows what makes them tick an' how to take 'em down! I learned all that throughout the years, an' it took another guy to come up with that!"

Junior let out a low whistle upon shuffling through the various notes about the Seven Bad Men. Virgil gaped at the drawings, not really reading the notes on the sides.

"Man o man," Junior muttered to himself, grabbing more. "This is what he's capable of, an' you want 'im on his back."

"Shut up, asshole!"

"He could be used against those things!" Junior cried, slapping the papers on the table. "Think of it–he might be the key in destroying those creatures. An' you wanna keep him here?"

"You've got no idea why I do this!" Hotstreak growled. "Tryin' to show him that not everyone's out to hurt 'im–!"

"But he still hates you! Says yer the 'worst one'! Shows you _you_ ain't doin' it right, you _rapist_."

"Stop–! ARGH! Just–you sonnvabitch!"

"Knock it off!" Virgil commanded, lowering his papers. "Jeezus, you two..._chill_. Hotstreak, as much as I hate to admit it, Junior's right. There's a whole lotta potential in this kid to just...keep him isolated. Luna could use 'im. Alva could use him to–"

"Oh, not uh! That old shit ain't havin' _NOTHIN_' to do wit' this boy!" Junior interrupted, flinging his papers at Virgil. "He ain't goin' to 'im. He's stayin' with _me._ I'll make sure that he works the right way...daddy just thinks of 'im as property, an' won't even stop ta think of usin' him any other way. I'll work 'im right."

Virgil picked up the papers that had fluttered over the table and floor. "Do you ever stop to listen to yourself?" he exclaimed. "You act as if he's not even human!"

"Far as I'm concerned, he ain't. You heard him–he's insane."

Hotstreak drew his guns. "Let's shoot 'im, Virgil. No one would miss him."

Virgil sighed, drawing a hand over his face. "I'd love that idea, but...the moral of it all is just wrong. We can't kill 'im...karma'll come back to him."

"...What's 'karma'?"

Junior relaxed once he realized that Hotstreak wasn't going to shoot him. "Anyway, the point of it all is he ain't goin' to Luna. I'll take 'im somewhere else, and...well, we'll see from there."

"Oh, don't tell me–yer gonna let him come up with all these plans an' then try to either blackmail or sell them to the highest bidder to anybody that wants 'em. In particular, you stupid dad," Hotstreak said with an exasperated eye roll. Junior reddened considerably, his left eye twitching. "Yer all obvious, man. Obviously, you've no idea–"

"You've got a better idea, you pedophile?"

"...What's a–?"

"Junior, you ain't usin' him!" Virgil snapped. "So knock off all that thinkin'! By the way, if'n you do want to hang out here, you should be workin' on makin' us happy an' comfortable bein' around you. Cuz...I dunno. Two or three against one? Don't sound like good odds..."

Junior frowned at the threat.

Virgil began putting all the papers away. "Let's all hit the hay. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what ta do. But I definitely don't wanna stay here much longer, Hotstreak. An' I don't think we should be lettin' that kid think the way he does. Obviously, he ain't all right in the head. Mebbe a doctor can figure somethin' out ta help him."

He left the table, picking up a tray. "I'm gonna take him some food."

"Virg, I can do that–" Hotstreak started to say, reaching for the tray when Virgil held it out of his reach.

"No, _I'll_ do it. I'll apologize. Somethin'. I'm sure he's a good kid...just ain't rightly influenced. You two don't kill each other while I'm doin' this, either."

"Virg...don't show him yer back. Seriously. He..."

"It's all right," Virgil said, shooting him an annoyed look. "Geez, he's just a kid."

Hotstreak frowned, but let him go. Then he looked over at Junior, who was slinking away as quietly as he could to escape clean-up duties. "Hey! You get back here an' help out, asswipe. You ain't above it all." 


	27. MYGWYWTTA pt II

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**Chapter Twenty-Five:  
>Maybe You'll Get What You Want This Time Around Pt. II<br>**

Virgil's head was swamped with thoughts as he carefully balanced the tray in both hands, making sure the stew didn't slop over the bowl's rim. He made sure to add a couple of rolls of bread and a cup of fresh water, as well as some salt to flavor the stew. The room was dark when he walked in, so he tried to be as quiet as possible. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he felt a sharp chill race up his spine as he felt the consuming feeling of being watched very closely. A glance around told him that the bed was occupied–carefully, shuffling quietly in the darkness, he made his way over to the dresser nearby.

He set the tray down, then carefully rearranged the various items atop of the dresser so that he could push the tray more firmly onto the surface. It was tough working in the darkness, but he managed to accomplish his task just by using his hands to feel around. He'd just pulled his hands down to his sides when the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to tingle–the creak of the floorboards behind him alerted him to movement, and he started to turn in automatic reaction.

It felt like he was punched at the base of his spine–he jolted forward against the dresser, tray knocked and contents sloshing as he steadied himself. Then the fiery sensation of having his skin rendered made him scream aloud with pain and surprise, almost paralyzed by the agony that raced throughout his body.

His arms flailed, smacking Richie directly across the face. He used that moment to shove blindly, his back burning with pain that made him arch. His pained scream had already alerted the other two men, both of whom barged into the room. Junior was carrying an oil lamp and waving a Colt around with one hand, and Hotstreak was armed with a rifle.

Upon feeling his blood on his palm, Virgil stilled, looking entirely taken by surprise as he shuffled away from his attacker. Junior held the lamp up high, fumbling to light the candles that had melted to puddles of hardened goo atop of their holders. Hotstreak saw Virgil moving awkwardly, and looked at Richie accusingly. It took some light to see a bloodied paring knife clutched tightly in one thin hand.

"Virg, you okay?" he asked, seeing Virgil examine his hand once more, bent painfully as Junior craned his neck to look at the wound.

"Jus'...jus' fine," Virgil rasped, wincing as his back burned with pain. He looked back at his attacker, seeing very wide, fear filled eyes that was trying to keep all three men in sight while keeping his knife firmly held in both hands.

Instead of feeling anger at being stabbed, Virgil just felt sorry for the pathetic creature that stayed crouched on the floor. It was as if he were looking at a cornered dog that was blinded by fear, snapping at anything that moved, unwilling to listen to reason.

Hotstreak whirled around, visibly furious. Immediately, the knife was dropped, and fear intensified to dread that made pupils dilate and blood to fall away.

"He was in my room–! He was in my room! He was going to use me–!" came the thin, reedy protest. "He was sneaking–! He was–you let him! You let him–you let him have me, he's faking it, all of you are faking everything–!"

"I told you ta never touch him–!" Hotstreak barked furiously, fury rising in him as he looked over Virgil's bloodied shirt once more.

Virgil grabbed his arm upon reaction, seeing the redhead make a move toward Richie. "It's okay, man. It's all right. Let's get it fixed, all right? I'm gonna bleed to death, cuz I'm sure as hell as NOT lettin' Junior get to me."

Junior shrugged. "Blood makes me queasy. I'd prolly let him die, too."

Hotstreak gave a short snarl, shooting Richie a furious look. Virgil's fingers tightened on his arm, and he forced himself to look away. Virgil gave Richie a concerned look as he let Hotstreak help him out of the room.

Junior crossed his arms, frowning after the pair, then looked down at Richie. The blond was desperately trying to wipe his face, obviously very upset with the whole situation. He scoffed.

"Stop yer bawlin'," he commanded. "_Jeez_. He ain't even touched you, an' you bawling like a damn baby."

Richie looked up at him, struggling to keep his hysterics from getting the best of him. Shaking, he tried to rise from the floor, but he kept slipping. It was obvious he lacked strength to do that simple thing.

Junior set the oil lamp down, then kicked the knife away from him. "You stick anything in me, I will come back from the dead an' make yer fuckin' life miserable. Then when you finally off yerself, I'll make that life miserable, too. Now, git up."

"...He was gonna...he was gonna touch me...he was goin' to–he was there, I woke up an' he was there–he was–!"

Junior grew impatient with the rising hysteria, shooting him an annoyed glare as he grabbed Richie's arm, yanking him to his feet. "Oh, knock it off. I doubt that dumbass knows what to do wit' his prick. Stop bein' such a damn ninny. You've handled worse, probably."

"Waking up–! I don't wanna wake up–! I didn't sleep–I hadn't slept–then when I do, he's there!"

Junior really couldn't understand what Richie was saying between his hiccups and suppressed sobs, so he gave up on trying. He pushed the blond toward the bed.

"Just git ta bed. They'll kiss each other better, I'm bettin', an' all will be forgotten. They already think you all crazy in the head. They'll just think it all that an' not bother with a thing."

"Don't wanna–! Don't want them–! Don't wanna wake up–!"

"I said, knock it off!" Junior commanded. "I don't even know what you tryin' to say with that girlish crying goin' on, there. _Jeez_."

"He did that–! He woke me up–! Can't ever sleep, knowing that they're right outside–gonna wake me up by touching me–!"

"No one's gonna touch you! _Damn_. Who would want to? Gawd, it's like lookin' at a damn, like, one o' them, like...things that starve!" Junior gave up on an example that matched Richie's physical description, finding it just too strenuous to do so. He frowned as he observed the shaking shoulders, the splotchy face and tears. "I said, _stop cryin_'! You show those men that weakness, they just gonna pounce all over it. Didn't those girls ever tell you that? 'Sides, you don't wanna show them no weakness, damn it. They just run all over you. Damn worthless dork an' his dumb cowpoke friend. Together, they both make up the rotten end of a–never mind. Stop that cryin'."

There was something soothing in Junior's rough actions. The same sort of comfort that Richie had found acceptable earlier on, while they were trying to survive together. In many ways, Junior was the strength that Richie needed. He was always looking out for Richie that way–toughening him, showing him around the ways of humans and their selfish ways.

Through the haze of indescribable fear that exhaustion and hunger had created, Richie heard those exasperated words and was growing steadily clear-headed as Junior fussed about in his own ways. Wiping his eyes with his sleeves, Richie blinked in the dimly lit room, finally realizing that Virgil had been setting a dinner tray atop of his dresser–it had been so dark, he didn't have his glasses; he'd just fallen asleep, just to be awakened by some small sound; he didn't even think or hesitate. He thought Virgil had been sneaking into his room to use him. The knife had been convenient, as he'd taken to sleeping with it under his pillow. He'd attacked without hesitation, wanting to save himself. Not wanting to be touched.

"When they come back, they're prolly gonna be real mad," Junior theorized, moving away from the bed. He grabbed the tray, and hauled it over to the bed. Stew and water had sloshed over the surface, but there was still some left in the bowl. "They'll prolly beat you real good, y'know? Virgil bein' his long lost bitch an' all. Eat this up. You prolly won't get a chance to, after that guy slaps you around a bit just to make 'im feel better."

Richie froze, staring at the food–his allotted menu was lost somewhere within the fear-tinged haze of his mind, and his body practically surged forward just to have at it. Before he could think, he was forking the stew into his mouth–then spitting it out.

"It's gross," he observed with a frown.

Junior gave him a cross look. "Don't be gettin' that way! Just eat it! It's good."

"...It's cold."

"It don't matter! It's fuckin' _food_!"

Richie shoved his tray away, pout registering over his features.

Junior stared in silent exasperation, then shoved it back atop of his lap. "Just eat the damn thing! It's all you get!"

"I don't want it. It's gross. It's cold. There's water all over the tray. My bread is soaked. I don't want it."

Junior snatched the tray from his lap, hissing, "You ungrateful piece of shit! What I wouldn't give for somethin' like this out on th' damn trail! What the fuck will get you ta eat it?"

"...It's cold. And my bread is soggy. I don't like soggy bread."

"Piece of shit princess. You think you all good? Maybe you shouldn't get any food at all, huh? You gonna be that way...shit. You'd think for all them brains you got, you wouldn't care 'bout this sorta shit. 'Soggy bread'...'cold' food. Shit."

With a sullen expression, Richie watched Junior stomp out of the room with the tray in hand. He was a little puzzled at the man's behavior, and was sort of bewildered. At the same time, he was curious if Junior would change the menu, or go about to pretty up the tray to make things a little more palatable. Still, apprehension over the consequences of his actions were more troublesome–he couldn't hear Virgil or Hotstreak, but he was fearful over the redhead's revenge.

He'd warned Richie not to touch Virgil–that was his 'friend'.

...But Hotstreak obviously never knew the extent and weight of Richie's fear. Hotstreak would never wake up after just falling asleep after many insomnia stricken nights to feel instant fear upon seeing someone in the room. He'd never know the feeling of knowing that he was going to be used. His body used against him.

Hotstreak would never feel that–after all, the man was...well, huge. And intimidating. No man would ever look at him and think awful thoughts about using his body. He was the far opposite of Richie, and...and it wasn't fair. None of it was.

Richie looked up to see Junior re-entering the room, grumbling. The bread was dry, the stew was slightly steamy...and there was a little container of salt and pepper next to the bowl. As Junior tossed the entire thing onto his lap, Richie had to wonder if this was a one-time act...or could he gleam more from him? After all, Junior _did_ want to use him–for whatever purpose. He'd practically crawl on hands and knees if he had to...because Richie knew he could give the man trouble. He was power Junior wanted–Junior _had_ to bow down to him to get what he needed.

Suddenly realizing that he could get away with a great deal of things by Junior alone, Richie glanced at the man cautiously, thinking of ways he could use him.

Meanwhile, Virgil winced as Hotstreak finished the last stitch. It had taken three of them to close up the wound Richie had made in him.

"Kinda...funny reaction from him, huh?" Virgil asked, feeling the awkward pull of forcefully closed skin. He was still in pain, the entire area throbbing with the painful sensation of being stabbed–he was just thankful that the knife had a small blade, and the kid hadn't been strong enough to cause more damage. "Wonder what would make him do that?"

Hotstreak didn't say anything as he set aside the needle and thread.

"Junior must've really terrorized 'im, huh? But...it's like...he's so attached to the fucker, it's kinda odd that they'd be so...an' he really looks at you like yer some kinda devil," Virgil continued, crossing his arms in front of him and resting his chin atop of them. He heard Hotstreak cleaning up the small batch of medical supplies that he had, and frowned at the lack of contribution to his words. "He keeps claimin' that yer not what I think. Y'know? I take you for a nice guy–just a bit dim, but not a monster. I don't see you hittin' or usin' that boy. 'Course, I kinda wonder why Junior keeps sayin' shit, an' why you guys are livin' together in th' middle of no-where–"

"Virgil, I–" Hotstreak cut himself off suddenly, guiltily realizing he was about to confess his side of the crimes. Mainly because...there was a sudden need, to.

Because...because having his friend stabbed by someone that he thought he'd loved told him something was entirely wrong. Maybe insanity couldn't be cured–but he still had Virgil.

At the same time...would Virgil even accept what Hotstreak had to confess? What if he lost him, too?

"What's up?" Virgil asked. He lifted his head to look back at him. "Just tell me, man. I mean...there shouldn't be secrets between us. I tell you everythin'."

"That's...that's just it. I mean...what I got ta say...you can't get mad."

"Why would I get mad?" Virgil asked.

Hotstreak worked his jaw for a few moments, then took a deep breath. "There's a reason he–Rich, there's a reason why he's that way."

"Yeah. We decided that it was all Junior's fault. From livin' in that whorehouse."

"Virg...he was all right when we first came here. He wasn't so...anyway...Virg, I loved that boy. Like...like...like your father loved your mom."

The silence was thick, and Virgil wasn't sure if he heard right. But he definitely understood the last sentence, seeing in his mind's eye his father and mother's relationship. He could see them hugging and kissing and having conversations that never seemed to end. He could see their smiles and hear their laughter–could see their love for each other in their expressions when they'd looked at each other.

And...to apply that very same notion to his manly friend and to that sickly teen?

Virgil's mind just popped with the strain.

"...Wha'?" he asked, managing to roll onto his side to look at Hotstreak better.

Flustered, and very visibly so, Hotstreak avoided his eyes. "I loved that boy, Virg. Wit'...wit' everything I got. Think I did from the first moment I saw him. I...I had 'im on my mind since we left Alva's, an'...whenever we were separated...I was lookin' for him. I just...he was just...I just wanted ta make the world better for him. An'...an' I fucked up wit' it."

Thick silence followed, and Virgil blinked. He was still absorbing what was being said–while in disbelief that Hotstreak was finally admitting his feelings for the boy (and such gossip it was!), Virgil had to immediately wonder what it was the redhead had done wrong. After all, he'd learned that whenever Hotstreak warmed up to a person, he did all that he could to please them. He was a loyal man, and always willing to take their side no matter what. How could he have failed this kid, who was so abused by a damn asshole? Virgil would have thought that Hotstreak made Richie feel entirely safe and better.

"I...I...wanted to give 'im everything. Show him that I...that I love him. That...that things would be better." In frustration, Hotstreak ran his hands through his hair, fingers clenching on the strands. "An'...an' you know me, Virg. I fucked up. I fucked everything up. I got ta thinkin'–I lose everything. I lose _everyone_. Everything that I...that I hold close, an' that I love gets taken away from me cuz I'm so fuckin' stupid, an' cuz of this damn invasion. I...I got desperate. I...just...I didn't wanna lose 'im. I did things that I shouldnt've with other people. I thought..."

Virgil sat up slowly, grimacing, but able to think past the pain to focus in on Hotstreak with dawning realization. Horror started to fill him, then, but this was his _friend_–! This was a man he cared about as a sibling–what was he supposed to think?

"He was fine, Virgil, until I...I just wanted to show him that things would be good between us. In all things, an'–an' I didn't think...I thought he was into it, too, but–!"

"You–! No...you...!"

"I just wanted ta show him, Virgil! An'...an' I fucked up, anyway. He...he was starting–an' then I did that, then–! All he wanted ta do was hide from me. He hated me–he tried killin' himself, then–! Then those Things started talking to him, then he got all insane–! An' it's all my fault! All of it is my fault!" Hotstreak ended in a frustrated cry, flinging his arms about. "I fuck up everything, an'...an' I fucked this up! He's all demented and insane, an' who's ta blame? _Me!_ Because _I'm_ fucked up! Because I'm so fucking fucked up, I have to fuck everything up all around me–! I hate it, Virgil!"

"No...no, man, it ain't all about that," Virgil said weakly, but he felt as if he were punched in the stomach. Just thinking about Hotstreak taking Richie against his will made him sick. He felt like throwing up. He couldn't imagine the horror Richie must have felt, trapped with some man that had followed him through Hell just to use him–but at the same time, he felt angry at his friend...and felt sorry for him as well.

He knew Hotstreak didn't have the best track record for luck. And Virgil knew that Hotstreak lost all that was dear to him in unfortunate events...so he could sort of understand why the redhead would be desperate to isolate Richie.

But he definitely didn't understand forcing someone when they were abused thoroughly enough before. Maybe Hotstreak did have the right intentions–but not the best ideas.

"Just...you...stopped when he wanted, right?"

"...No. I...I always made sure he-he always...y'know...I made sure that he–first."

Virgil's face immediately scrunched. "So...not only are you taking him against his will, you're making his body betray himself?"

"...I...I had thought...since he was a whore, he had to put other people first...I thought..."

"Goddammit, Francis!" Virgil shouted, riled enough to rise from the bed. He ignored the pain that flared up and down his back. "No wonder he's all fucked up!"

"I know, Virgil! Damn! I regret it all the fucking time. There ain't a day that goes by when I regret doin' all this stupid stuff...things could'a been different, if I just thought–!"

"You obviously don't think, man! You don't! You're so...like, hyped up on thinkin' yer gonna lose things, then you rush on things! Makin' it worse!"

"...I know that, Virgil!"

"Then why don't you think things through?"

"It makes sense right then! If I didn't...I would have lost him...I...I would never have the chance...an' I couldn't help but be attracted, he was different then–!"

"Oh, God," Virgil muttered, dropping his face into his hands as he fought not to be sick.

Hotstreak looked at him helplessly, fearing the loss of his friend at his confession. The silence was thick, and they could hear Junior saying something muffled to Richie in the kid's room down the hall.

The longer the silence stretched, the more Hotstreak began to panic over the possible loss of Virgil's friendship. He knew how morally tight Virgil was–how he scorned bad decision and immoral concepts. This situation was as immoral as it could possibly get. Hotstreak may never have raised a hand to Richie, or abused him as Junior did, but he certainly contributed to breaking him in other ways.

Swallowing hard, Hotstreak peered at Virgil's hidden face, fearing his reaction. "V?...Virg? You...you there?"

Virgil inhaled deeply, his hands shaking as he pulled them from his face. He looked at Hotstreak, but couldn't see the visage of his friend–the same man he'd laughed and joked with, worked with. The man he cared so much for, and grew to think of him as a sibling. Now that Hotstreak was confessing his more monstrous mistakes, how could Virgil look past that? How could he justify such actions as... 'okay'?

"Virg...? Man...say _something_. An'...an' I know I fucked up, just...you've got to understand why I did it. Why I did it all."

"I...I can see...but...I..."

"V, what I did was wrong, an' I _know_ this! I know it was! I can't help but see this whenever...whenever I see him. I'm a monster to him, Virgil. An'...that wasn't my intention at all. I just...I just loved him, I'm sure I did, an'...I just..._God_." Hotstreak straightened away from him, drawing his hands over his face. "I'm goin' to lose you too, ain't I?"

Virgil shook his head, but he couldn't help but feel sick at the evidence of Richie stabbing him in self-protection. One look at Hotstreak, another one at Richie–while he did recognize that his friend had good things in mind, he just...he couldn't accept the actions that had been taken. They were too monstrous.

He rose, hitting Hotstreak across the head angrily. "Fucking bastard! Why don't you use them brain cells, huh? Thinkin' like that, that ain't right! You don't treat people like that–ever! Ain't no excuse!"

Hotstreak rubbed his head painfully.

"I just...I...don't believe that..."

"It ain't right! _Ever_! Goddamn...none of it's right..." Virgil shook his head, slowly making his way across the room. He stopped at the doorway, but he didn't turn around. "I don't know what ta say right now, man. It's just...it wasn't right of you to do that. But...I understand what you were tryin' ta do. Kinda...I just..."

Shaking his head again, Virgil left the room.

Hotstreak watched him go, but the feelings inside of him were growing thick with agony over the situation. Anger flared through his veins, warming him instantly. He was wondering who else to blame–wondering what to take it out on. He could lose everything, now–as fragile as it was.

Sure, Richie's craziness was seriously taking a toll on him, but...

Virgil may never look at him the same, now. Knowing what he did.

His fists clenched, and his chest grew tight.

He heard Virgil walk into his room, closing the door behind him. Standing motionless in his room, Hotstreak stared at nothing and felt the warmth of his frustration, hate and anger sweep through him. Frustration at making the wrong decisions, hate for what he'd caused and lost, and anger because he knew he'd just continue making them.

He felt worthless as a person–cruelly destined to make mistakes.

He felt so low and dirty at that point, knowing that he'd continue to make mistakes that would further isolate himself from others...it was such agony to bear.

Two angry steps had him striding to the door, slamming it shut with enough force to ring throughout the house. Fury welled up inside of him, and he angrily swept things off various surfaces, liking the crashing sounds of things breaking. He picked up the heavy chair that sat in front of a vanity table, and hurled that through a window. The sound of breaking glass was satisfactory.

He jerked off all the sheets and quilts off his bed, and tore the mattress from the frame.

Panting, he kicked one of the supports of the frame, hearing wood crack in protest.

Angrily, he turned and stormed out of the room, reaching for one of the six-shooters that rested at his hip. He marched into Richie's room, startling both Junior and Richie. Even as he took in the scene of them together, doing whatever they were doing–Hotstreak was filled with jealousy.

It was always Junior, Junior, _Junior_. Richie listened to Junior more than anybody–Junior was constantly tracking Richie down. It was a relationship that Hotstreak had no true grasp of, but the gist was obvious–Richie would always chose Junior.

And...as much as he had feelings for Richie...Richie would always see him as a monster.

Letting go should be easier when one knew they couldn't keep the one they loved when they loved someone else.

He had the gun pointed at both of them, both of them startled by his appearance and fury.

"In the mornin', I want both of you gone," he snarled low, his tone leaving none to argue or protest. Junior clamped his mouth shut, but the younger Alva was very gleeful inside. "No arguments. Nothin'."

He looked at Richie, staring down at that pale visage, the deeply shadowed eyes. The glitter of helpless fear and hate. It was something he should be used to, but the knife still cut deep whenever he saw it. It could have been different if he hadn't been so...desperate.

And he was angry at Richie for never trusting him. For never accepting that he was trying to do good for him.

"I hope to never see you again," he said, even as it hurt to say. But it was the truth. For everyone's sakes, it was the truth. "What shit I did...I can't take back. I just...you just never accepted what good I _did_ do. Well you know what? Fuck you, too. Selfish prat, you always figgered it was all you. _All_ about you. You wanna be insane, it ain't because of me. But I hope you die somethin' awful, man. I hope you suffer. Because that's what you want."

"Man, you–!" Junior started, reddening in the face. Hotstreak didn't bother listening to that–he hit Junior with his gun without any warning, the younger Alva crumpling to the floor with nary a sound.

Richie didn't take his eyes away from Hotstreak for a moment, but the moment Hotstreak straightened to face him once more, he was tensing–keeping himself from blinking.

"Wish I never knew you," he confessed quietly, feeling that. "Wish I never...felt the way I did. Cuz, in the end–it's me that gets it, anyway. You'll just go on, doin' whatever...I have to live wit' what I did. _All_ of it. You just another added pain. I fuckin' hate that–I fuckin' wanna hate you...so badly."

Hotstreak looked into those amber eyes, and shook his head. He looked away, and walked away from the bed. He could feel Richie's eyes on him, but...there was nothing more to say. Just...anger and frustration. Regret and reluctance.

He felt there was something on the tip of his tongue–so he hesitated in the doorway. But it didn't come out, and he walked out. He looked down the hall toward Virgil's room, knowing the man was listening–but he felt that stonewall begin to rebuild once more.

Virgil wouldn't look at him the same. Now that he knew Hotstreak was a monster.

_God_...was there a place on this Earth that would just...take him away from everything? Keep him from destroying more lives?

Pain made him growl, and he whirled toward the stairway. Again and again and again–he wasn't fit for anything. Why was he even here–the scapegoat for all things horrible? Was that his stupid 'Purpose'?

He immediately gathered his things, and grabbed several loaded rifles. He grabbed an ammunition bag, and tossed on the jacket that hung nearby. He was not going to stay–the morning would be too awkward.

He heard Virgil call his real name, but he ignored that. He headed outside, hearing the scurry of things. He whistled for Charger, and while the stallion galloped toward him, he turned to the shadows snarling, "Take 'im. _All_ of them. Don't care, anymore. Burn the fuckin' place down. Ain't nothin' good in there, anyway."

He heard silence in response, but he was used to that. The Things never communicated with him.

Charger's ears were laid flat once he reached Hotstreak, but upon recognizing his owner, he settled somewhat. Hotstreak grabbed his halter and headed for the barn to grab his saddle. Virgil was still calling for him, but his injury hindered his movements.

"Fuck this place," he spit angrily, hurt welling up inside of him. "Fuck this place, fuck him–fuck you. Don't–! I'm always doin' things _wrong_! Always...always fuck–I never do right! I...I can't even...can't even give a home–dammit!"

Solemnly, the stallion waited for him to grab his saddle, and his movements were brisk as he began piling on the blanket and the heavy leather-made setup. He didn't bother with supplies–he just wanted _out_. Far away from it all.

"Just...worthless! Never–never do right! _Ever_! Fuck-up, 'm always fucking up–!" Each word was a painful gasp, and he was shedding angry, frustrated tears as he mounted his horse.

_Of course, you realize that it's meant to be this way_...

Hotstreak and Charger reacted with surprise upon hearing that voice. It was something clear–as if the person were standing next to them. The stallion paced restlessly, caught in a power it was helpless against. Hotstreak stared out into the darkness, hearing the hiss of demonic things as they sought cover from the intruder.

"...Wha'? What...where...who...?"

_All thirteen of you have to be this way...each of you will be groomed for your exact Purpose. None of it will be pleasant, but in the end...it's how things must be._

Hotstreak blinked in confusion.

_It must hurt so much, and while I cannot imagine your pain, you must realize that it is forming you into the person that you need to be when the time comes. Just as the other is being groomed for his position when his time comes_...

"What you talkin' about? What the–?"

_Sometimes people are given painful and hard tasks–when they have a hold of it, they are unable to withstand the consequences and the actions they encounter afterward. They lose themselves–unfortunately, the tasks that you will have to take will require your newly formed personality in order to overcome. But it is not all for naught–in the end, when everything is accomplished according to plan...the pain will stop_.

Hotstreak wasn't sure what he was supposed to understand from that cryptic message, but one thing was clear–he just wasn't going to believe some disembodied voice. He grabbed his gun, and fired randomly into the night, Charger whinnying anxiously.

"Whatever. If'n this is one of those things creepin' 'round the house all the time, you can just forget it. I ain't gonna stop nobody. You want 'im? Take him. I ain't got nobody to fuckin' hold me down, anymore..."

_The pain will stop after you've accomplished your Purpose, Francis,_ the voice began again. _But your grooming will continue. I'm so sorry it has to work this way...I'm so sorry that in order to be strong, you have to be hurt. But it's that way for the other twelve–it has to be. The task that you all will face will be an arduous one–decisions have to be made. But they will be made after your grooming has been completed. Afterward, things will be righted. Things will be fixed_.

Hotstreak wanted to believe all that. He truly did. But for the moment...this weird woman was speaking some odd things to him, and he was still angry and hurt. For the now, this message meant nothing to him. He just...wanted to get away. From all of it.

He sneered at the darkness, but he grew embarrassed at the fact that his eyes were overworking their tear ducts again.

"Fuckin' _lies_, man. Alla it. Talk your bullshit with someone that fuckin' gives a damn. Cuz I don't. None of it. Nobody. I'm done. I'm done with...with hurtin' everybody. I'm done gettin' all attached to stupid fools! I'm done!"

_...I am so sorry...please...I'm so sorry..._

Hotstreak shoved the gun back into his hip holster, and he was giving Charger a sharp heel kick in the sides. The stallion protested angrily, bucking forward, then sprinting off down the road in a furious run.

The Things continued to hiss and verbally threaten the woman that separated herself from the shadows, her face drawn with misery. The whiteness of her dress contrasted sharply with the night, and her angelic features were tight with worry. The gray stripes in her hair contrasted with the darkness, fluttering with the gentle breeze as she looked over at the house.

Muh stood in the doorway, a tight frown on her aged face. She nodded solemnly in her direction.

Things were in place–things had been accomplished.

Jean sighed tiredly, but she knew things were on-course.

They would just have to wait for the others to catch up.


	28. Epilogue

**Warning: OOC, violence, profanity! Mature themes**

**I don't own the characters to Static Shock!**

**A/N: FINISHED! :**D Comment if you like…or not like…whatever. I know it was longish and it hurt your eyes and head, but thanks for reading!.

**Epilogue**

"Things were meant for a reason," Kangorr reasoned, adjusting the glasses that he wore. "There are some hard decisions up ahead, man, an' none of it ain't gonna come easy. 'Ve been thinkin' that with every hardship we overcome, there's a _reason_."

"Ain't hearin' that bullshit anymore," Hotstreak muttered, glaring at the horizon. "So sick o' hearin' _It's all for a reason_!"

"Well...whatever happened back there, happened. An' made ya stronger."

"Fuck that! Blayne, you don't know me. What I did!"

"I don't haveta know what ya did to figure out that it _hurt_, man."

Hotstreak exhaled heavily, but he hated when Kangorr was on one of his preaching trips. Two years into rejoining Blood Inc., and Kangorr was just now delving into those pathetic speeches of his. But Blayne was good that way–even as he resented Hotstreak popping up whenever he did, Blayne just...accepted him. And that was what Hotstreak needed from time to time. Acception without question.

"You girls done gossipin'?" Ebon asked in a bored tone, his gelding avoiding one of Charger's nips. "Cuz I'm hungry. An' there's some prime meat out there, an' I wanna piece o' it."

"Ooh, Ebon, you make it sound so nasty," Shiv commented in an interested tone, looking over quickly.

He ducked to avoid the scythe that came flying at his head, and let out a snarky little laugh.

Jessie stared at the both of them, her eyes narrowing as she then shook her head. "Y'know, ya'll could be a little sneaky. Why ain't'cha two married, yet?"

"What? What the hell you talkin' about, I don't know what yer talkin' about–!" Ebon snarled, looking ready to bite into the former whore.

"Ah...marriage...do I have to be the wife?" Shiv asked curiously, snapping out of a brief daydream as he looked at Ebon.

Jessie held out her hand, and Kangorr gave her a small ammunition bag with a low grumble, Hotstreak wondering what he'd missed. He frowned at them for a few moments, then looked ahead.

The stretch of zombies, demons, and various other creatures continued to pave a road through the Maine; all their various noises and sights made the land multi-colored, making it move. The members of Blood Inc. were perched atop of a mountain that overlooked the sight.

The closer they got to Madelyn and Caine, the more the obstacles that hit them. It was as if she were viewing them on a video screen, and giving the commands for things to drop in front of them in order to eliminate them. Whichever, Blood Inc. had luck and skill on their side, and had overcome every obstacle they'd come across.

Meaningless deaths, wrong actions, mistakes–all of it was made, and the feelings of failure and loss made the fighting harder. But...but they were still there. They still had a goal–Blayne was more determined than ever stop what he felt he'd started (the very same feelings Hotstreak struggled with) and fix the world. He was the push for the members of Blood Inc.–both Ebon and Shiv adored him in their own ways, and Hotstreak himself clung to Kangorr because even if he dropped his duties abruptly and suffered through his losses–Kangorr was always there when he came back. It was something he was really starting to hold possessively of.

At the sound of an approaching rider, he and Kangorr turned in their saddles to see the last member of their group ride up. With a huge grin on his face, Carter pulled his horse to a stop and practically tore the messenger bag off his shoulder.

"Got some more info 'bout the Seven Bad Men, an' more translations of that book," he said, tossing the bag at Kangorr. "I think we got it, this time..."

Hotstreak thought of the book that he'd first seen on the train–covered in infant skin, Caine had said. Jessie had been the one to steal it right out of Caine's jacket. She was the one responsible for handing the book over to Kangorr–who in turn found someone that could actually translate the odd language written within. Their information came from that source, and while Hotstreak had an idea as to who it was...he didn't really think about it.

Kangorr pulled out a fistful of papers, then made a face as he pushed them back. He looked at his gloves, wiggling his fingers. Hotstreak caught the glint of blood on them, and frowned. Ebon looked over and couldn't look away, eyeing Kangorr's hand hungrily.

"Sorry," Carter apologized. "I just grabbed 'em an' ran. I don't think he was quite done with the last few pages."

"Overexcited, much?"

"...The Butcher makes me really really _really_ nervous," Carter said with an embarrassed laugh, sweeping his hat off his head.

Kangorr chuckled as he carefully withdrew several more papers, reading what had been written out neatly. After taking in a few lines, a bright smile crossed his face.

"Let's set up camp, boys and girl. We got us some plannin' to do."

"Good news? Bad?" Shiv asked hopefully.

"_Very_ good news. Looks like we got us a way to get ta Madelyn an'...an' take back what's ours." Kangorr broke into a pleased grin. "_We got it._ We can do it."

"No shit?" Hotstreak asked on a skeptic frown. "For real?"

"...For real." The others turned away from the edge of the hill, away from the sight of the army continuing their way down south. Kangorr looked at Hotstreak, and set him a gentle smile. "You done good, man. _Real_ good. Might not know it now, but...things always work out in the end."

"Geez, cut the crap, Blayne. Seriously. If'n I haveta hear more fuckin' Godly crap from that mouth of yours..."

"I'm just sayin', man. Everything happens, an' is done for a reason. Sometimes we don't get it right away, but when we actually think of it...it makes sense."

Hotstreak exhaled again, then rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he muttered, nudging Charger forward to follow after the others.

Kangorr grinned, looking back down at the papers. He then looked up at the army, feeling hope and excited cheer fill him. After so many years of fighting, searching and frustration...it looked as if the war was coming to an end. The feeling of accomplishment was near, and while he knew he couldn't exactly celebrate for a win that hadn't yet been captured just yet...he was just too excited to know that it was all coming to an end.

"We got it, man...we got it."


End file.
